


Edge of Paradise

by Seaneta



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Creepy Hannibal, Drugged Sex, Hallucinations, Humiliation, Kidnapping, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Medical Examination, Original Character Death(s), Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seaneta/pseuds/Seaneta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will thinks he's going crazy. Hannibal Lecter helps in the only way Hannibal Lecter can: by doing the exact opposite of what any normal person would. </p><p>Every chapter will contain a particular kink (and/or trigger).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

It was a closed casket funeral.

And since the funeral, Andrew Hammond stayed inside his house. His boss understood, even when Hammond stopped bothering to call in. He stopped doing many things in fact: household chores, common responsibilities included. Instead, he spent his days rarely changing out of t-shirts and pants, forgetting to eat, and stared at photo albums along the fireplace. Never before had he felt an itch on his finger, where his wedding band used to be. It times, it kept him up at night.

Andrew made his imprint on the recliner every day, staring at the incased pictures of something that once was. Heather and him when they dated in college, holding beers while celebrating the new year at their friend Paul’s place. A few newspaper clippings of the rapes along the south side of Virginia’s Fairfax. Him and brown-haired Heather, on a boat, and Heather wearing a tight and small pink bikini while showing off her engagement ring. More newspaper clippings with reports of mutilated, raped, and murdered young men and women. Police had connected the past crimes to one man. Another photo. The birth on their son, little baby Tim, as beautiful Heather held him with a smile. Newspaper articles, now calling the perpetrator _The Southside Killer_.

Nothing worked. Nothing provided what Hammond needed for the last three weeks. He lurked in the underground, crept along shady roads, loomed where most avoided. He could not find the Chesapeake Ripper. The man refused to be caught, even by his own kind.

After the funeral, on the twenty-second day of his new life, Andrew Hammond closed another photo album and walked into Timmy’s old bedroom. More recent newspaper clippings were tapped along the wall, featuring the Ripper and his confirmed victims throughout the last few years. There was no apparent pattern, other than the man had to be living somewhere within a 500 mile radius. That was the best he could do. Apparently better than any cop or public record could. But now recent reports began to interest Andrew for a new reason. They started to feature some profiler William Graham, connecting him with the Ripper. He _knew_ much about the Ripper, more than anyone possibly could.

Some pretty browned hair boy.

\- -

“You shouldn't be watching the news, Will. It’s in your best interest and ours. We don’t want you distracted.”

Will Graham glanced at his monitor’s screen, eyeing the opened tabs titled with things like _Frankenstein’s Bride?_ and _Dracula’s Pet_. He spent most of his day in his empty lecture hall, only leaving his work space for bathroom breaks or to grab something from the lounge to munch on. The latest Ripper case involved a young male identified as twenty-eight year old Timothy Hammond. He was put on display at a newly opened Virginia playhouse, chains littering his body that were connected from rafters above. Holding him upright, the abdomen’s contents spilled from a deep puncture wound. Half of his brain was taken.

It was a particularly grotesque scene executed in the Ripper’s usual precision.

Will couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of responsibility.

Although it was confirmed the killer murdered before his fascination with Graham began, the last three kills have been in his name, so to speak. The first victim resembled Will and pink roses covered the corpse; its heart taken. The second body was that of Gerald Johnson, a repressed gay policemen who had sexually harassed Graham two days prior to his death. His tongue and lungs were missing. The Hammond murder was the most eerie to date and had Crawford’s team working into odd hours of the night. Will had tickets to see a modern rendering of _Hamlet_ the night the body was found on the stage. His date, a spirited woman named Molly, was so shaken up she had yet to return his calls.

“It’s not a distraction. It’s research.” Will sat back in the chair and rubbed his eyes. “I’d rather not be in the dark about what slurs to expect when I go into town.”

Jack didn’t like the idea of his fragile agent facing what most fieldworkers never had to endure, but held his tongue. Will was strong, stubborn despite his furtive demeanor. He wouldn’t press the issue. So instead Jack just nodded as he walked back out the doorway, saying a quick hello to Dr. Lecter the hall. Will watched Jack leave with weary eyes before looking back at his computer screen. It was nearing ten at night and his phone had yet to light up with the name _Molly_. He considered going home, but resisted the urge for the time being. He had no plans tomorrow, no reason for an early wake. He could just work from home in the company of his dogs, but here, at the academy, he didn’t have to be as on guard.

Graham was consumed with the Chesapeake Ripper, and with catching him possibly more than anyone was, Crawford included. Analyzing the crime scenes were less difficult through photos, verses the actual thing. When Will used his unique talent of empathy on the first victim, he was bombarded with an obsession... _of himself._ He didn't want to admit it at the time, in front of Price, Bloom, and god-forbid  _Lecter_ , but Will crept so deep into the mind of the Ripper he felt himself get hard. It was better to just look at pictures now, in the safety of an empty room, alone. Jack thought it was for protection. Will just didn't want to adjust behind a tree  _ever again_.

The Ripper was obsessed with him, he knew, singling him out of Jack’s entire team and anyone else who had ever tried to find him. The media assumed the serial killer was giving him valentines because of some kind of romantic relationship, mainly with the help of Lounds’s persuasive articles on _Tattlecrime_. Jack and the team, however, figured it was his work with the FBI. That perhaps Will was on the right track to catching him and the Ripper wanted to scare him away. But Will knew better.

The killer was taunting him in the way a deranged father would, or an abusive lover. And he had to find the bastard before he could find Will alone. The agent figured his chances of running into the Ripper were small at the academy compared to his isolated, empty house. Remembering how he felt with that first victim, he wanted to delay the meeting as long as possible.

A knock halted his thoughts and Will turned to find Dr. Lecter standing in the doorway. He smiled tentatively before walking inside. He held plastic containers in his hands.

“My apologizes for disrupting your work. I was unaware anyone else was still in this section in the building.”

“Lost track of time. Guess everyone is lately.”

A pause. “Are you all right, Will?”

“Yeah. Sure. You know, the usual.” He minimized his work on the monitor before turning the chair.

“I was on my way home,” Hannibal gestured to his empty food containers, “My dinner plans ran unexpectedly late, and I noticed someone was still here. Would you like company to your car, Will?”

_Would you like to confirm for me your fears of being alone?_

Will immediately dismissed the offer with a smile. “That isn’t necessary. Thanks, but the night’s still young. I’m going to continue to work on this.”

“I understand you find yourself in an unique predicament, Will.” Hannibal said. “You’re anxious of this Ripper. I’m surprised Jack has not appointed you with protection officers.”

“He did. But I refused. I’m surrounded by agents when I’m working, and I have a temp badge to carry a gun. It’d be redundant.”

“You’re alone plenty, Will. Here, for example. In your home. Dogs can only protect their owner so much, and Lounds made it quite obvious in her article that you are not a sharp shooter.”

Will gave a strained smile. He didn’t need bodyguards. He already had the media watching him and half the FBI, he didn’t need more strangers too. It was difficult to even take a piss without wandering eyes on him, curious or terrified. “I get what you’re saying, I do. Really. And I appreciate your concern. But I’ve been staying at a coworker’s house for the last few weeks. I don’t go anywhere without telling someone. And, with reporters hounding me, it’s kinda hard to be alone.”

“I understand,” Hannibal's lips curled up. “But at the risk of another rejection, I would like to have you over for dinner tomorrow. I have a lamb that has been prepared to be roasted, and I think some real food may settle your stomach.”

“That…actually sounds nice. Heh.” He glanced at his empty soda bottle. Dr. Lecter had been treating Will to dinners for months, even at times bestowing small, off-handed gifts into hesitate hands. Although he never minded the company, at times it felt as though the man was courting him into a friendship. Still, dinner did sound nice. The _staying-with-a-coworker_ was a lie anyway and Hannibal probably knew that. Everyone was too terrified of him now because of the Ripper. Except Crawford’s team.

“I think I’ll take you up on the offer.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

\- -

The cool breeze of the forest swept across the parking lot and around Will’s limbs. He called it a night one hour after Lecter’s own departure, heading for his car in the spacious academy lot. The man had new leads he wanted to check into at the John Hopkins Hospital the next day, specifically doctors who worked in the trauma unit. Thankfully, Jack never asked for the temp badge back after the Hobbs ordeal. He could use it to access any files he requested.

Graham hugged the jacket around him tighter, his boots hitting the pavement with muted taps. It was a Friday night; most never stayed late at Quantico as the weekend beckoned them. Almost no other cars were in the parking area. However, a grating sound made him stop and reassess his surroundings, using instincts and perception to act fast. But there was nothing in front of him, nothing to his sides. So then-

He felt the hit before seeing it.

Will fell back into his car’s side as the breath was knocked from his lungs. He found himself wedged between his car and a dark form that tried to press a damp piece of fabric to his mouth. Will pushed down the instinct to suck in large breaths and grabbed the forearms of his assailant to force them back. Only when the cloth was away from his face did Graham gasp for air. Black spots danced in front of his eyes, but he ignored the discomfort as he concentrated on subduing the attacker. But the sly man kneed him in the stomach, pressing whatever air he managed to scrape in, back out.

The man shoved the handkerchief back over Will’s mouth, smashing his head cruelly into the hood of his car while fingers clawed over his face to hold him still. Pressed against Will, the man felt the convulsions of his chest as he finally gasped for air through the cloth. Will connected a punch to the man’s jaw to throw him off, but he took the slight sting with a smile. Within a few seconds the agent’s body sagged against the car as he tried to pry the hand away from his mouth.

“Give in,” The man whispered, “Just give in.”

He watched as Will did as he was told, the hand Will had gripping the man’s fell limp and his eyelids flickered shut. The man impatiently lifted his body and walked briskly to his own vehicle.

\- -

Will woke up in an unusual mix of pain, and a sensation of a totally different kind that one did _not_ associate with getting abducted.

He groaned, the wheel in his mind moving once again and beginning to race as to where he was and what his situation had become. He tried to move, but found it impossible. His body was forced upright in a standing position and his arms were spread at his sides, tied with what felt like rope around his wrists. His ankles were also roughly tied, spreading his legs apart and forcing his body into an uncomfortable star. His mouth was gagged with rope, and it took a moment to realize he wasn't blind nor was the room dark; instead the heavy and tight fabric across his eyes told him it was a makeshift blindfold. He grunted through the rope, listening to the small sound carry a long distance. Where ever he was, it was a large room. And hot too. 

Will calmed his breathing, inhaling through the nose. Testing the restraints, he felt a jolt of unexplainable arousal shoot through his body. He couldn’t move a centimeter as the sound of straining rope taunted him as though he could somehow get free. Did the man drug with him to make him more sensitive? He felt air on his bare legs and arms, shivering. 

 

The stage was just as large as the Virginia Playhouse, but in ruin. Andrew Hammond sat in one of the decaying seats and watched as the small man struggled and tried to understand what was happening. The entire stadium was desolate, left to rot and for the wilderness to reclaim. The most modern thing in the abandoned place was the artificial lighting above the agent, shinning directly on him for the best lighting.

The rope rubbed against his pale skin as he tested the bonds, but he couldn’t do anything more than pathetic jerks. Hammond could understand the Ripper’s carnal desires for this young man, assuming his fascination with the male was purely physical. It sure was for him.

His coffee-colored hair reminded him so much of Heather. And this boy had the most striking eyes. They were so wide when he slammed him against the car hours ago. He almost didn’t want to blind him. William Graham. Agent Graham. Mr. Will. To this little doe, who was in a panic, he was nothing but a shadow: a menacing and ominous presence surrounding Will. He was just above six foot and possessed an angelic face; probably one of the reasons he was never suspected in his crimes. No one ever suspected him as the fearsome Southside Killer, the _Southside Rapist_. He slowly stood, taking his time to wipe the old dust from his pants. He glanced at the lens behind him. Show time.

Will stopped moving when he heard approaching footsteps on old wood. Sweet Will. The sweat along his brow was not from the heat of the light, Hammond knew. But even sweaty and scratched up from his time hoisting Will into the rope, he was beautiful. Flawless skin, a tiny turned up nose, pink, thin lips framing a damp rope across his mouth. His body was in better shape than Hammond figured for a professor, even hidden underneath that baggy shirt he could see the perfect shape of the body. Flesh beckoning for him to touch. The Ripper’s Pet. Caught. Defenseless. His for the taking.

The Ripper didn’t have as good as a hold as he thought he did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, what is this show doing to me?  
> Wrote this without a particular episode/season in mind. As the Grinch says, "We'll improvise... just keep it kind of loosey-goosey."  
> Future chapters will (should) be longer as well!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One particular section is completely italicized to indicate a flashback.
> 
> And thanks to all the anons and members who have commented/left kudos!:) Bread and butter, people. Bread and butter.

Heather woke Andrew up by wrapping her arms around his and kissing him. He rubbed his eyes, finding a button nose pressing against his own. “Good morning.”

“G’morning,” He twirled a long piece of her hair. “What time is it?”

“Almost six.”

Heather Wilson looked like a woman who belonged in a white mansion, not some small apartment, living on pitiable paychecks. But even with minimal resources, the woman managed to make her chocolate hair shine and have a top-notch physique. Andrew promised her the better life was around the corner. He just had to wait for that promotion at the firm.

Heather kissed him again, only with more vigor. Her mouth wandered down to his ear where she nibbled on the lobe. It was his weak spot. She knew this.

“You’re full of passion this morning,” he muttered, pulling the white comforter over their heads. Heather’s response was another nip, more bites on his ear as hands wandered. “Not that I’m…complaining, but what’s gotten into you, babe?” She stopped moving on top of him and looked at him with pinched lips. Something was wrong, but Heather had never used sex to solve a problem before. “Darling?” He pressed.

With her head hovering over his, holding up the blanket like a tent, her conflicted face broke into one of pure passion and joy. She laughed. “What is it?”

She took another moment before containing herself, then leaned down to whisper, “I want a little girl.” Her words were delicate and tender as though her tongue was a cradle and the idea her baby. And it was a joyful announcement, if it wasn’t just as unwise. The light of the morning sun that made her silhouette angelic, and the white of her lingerie didn’t distract Andrew from the fact a baby probably couldn’t come at a more inopportune time.

“Heather,” He whispered slowly, “Don’t you want to wait a little so we can settle here first? Three or four months, at least? Until we can build up our savings?” The reasoning was sound, but it hid a more sinister rationale both Heather and Andrew danced around. But her face continued to glow after the declaration, knowing that any logic wouldn’t deter her from her goal. She wouldn’t listen, couldn't, and Andrew looked at her for a long moment. “Okay.” He finally said, “I want a girl too. But I can’t promise anything.”

“It’ll be a girl,” she nodded, “I know it will be. Don‘t worry.”

\- - -

Will Graham remembered waking up, head bobbing, and feeling very odd. He couldn’t move his arms properly. Everything around him smelled like a mechanic’s garage, a white noise rang in his ears. His senses were hyper-sensitive while his mind was a dense fog, difficult to focus on anything for longer than a second. His thoughts could not complete themselves. On an impulse, his head fell back and it landed onto a body behind him. Vaguely, he remembered that his situation was not ideal, not good _at all_ , and he tried to tell the body behind him this, but his mouth didn’t work and he was pushed into leather. Will’s head rested on someone’s lap.

In a dream-daze, he noticed his jacket and shoes were gone. Probing hands searched his clothing for weapons, a wallet, anything. The hands returned after an unidentifiable time, tugging off the rest of his clothes, socks, undergarments. That was not okay, but a voice told him to let the hands do this. Will felt pain against his cheek and heard quiet laughter, knees pressing on the sides of his head. Will registered that he was in a car.

“Where's your Ripper, boy?” Hands poked and played with him in a humiliating way. His head bobbed. Will shut his eyes soon after.

\- - -

Andrew Hammond held Will’s unconscious body like one would a sleeping lover, close to his chest with arms wrapped under his knees and behind his back. The man discarded Will’s clothes, save for a baggy white t-shirt Hammond slipped on him after the car ride. Now the boy was just a pile of pale limbs in his arms. He looked down at Will often as he walked through the dark passageway. His head bounced with every step, mouth parted. It was tantalizing to see the boy like this. With the concealing clothes from earlier, one would never think this boy’s body would look so sculpted. It was like a work of art. Each contour found its perfect niche, falling into place as naturally as good soldiers. The texture of toned calves, of thighs, they urged Hammond to move his hand down and grab his ass to see how it felt. Past boys certainly didn’t look this fit. No wonder it was tricky to subdue him in the parking lot.

By the time Andrew dragged the boy to his intended destination, he had to admit it had been a tiring process. Normally Hammond dealt with smaller boys, and although Will was small, he was a bit taller than those in the past. Had some muscle.

Andrew set Will down onto ground. The action caused a small groan from the boy, so Andrew flicked Will’s nose. From the hit, there was no noise, no flutter of eyelids or even a spasm. He flicked the nose again for good measure, making sure the boy was still knocked out, before standing up and retrieving a few items some feet away. He had visited the old playhouse hours earlier, placing his supplies under some old debris. The snap of the latex glove didn’t disturb the sleeping boy, nor the application of some petroleum jelly. He walked back over and crouched down beside Will. With his bare hand, Andrew grasped Will’s length near the tip and gently stroked. As he did that, he slowly worked his gloved greased finger between his ass and gently poked at his entrance. He maneuvered past his tight ring and immediately a drug-induced whimper emitted from Will’s throat. Andrew had done this many times before, but never with a boy near Tim’s age.

Will groaned into his gag again when the finger slid in, up to the knuckle, and Andrew wiggled it around. Feeling that the pressure was too much for Will, Andrew stopped his lazy strokes and removed his finger from his backside. He stood with a click of his tongue; he always became mildly annoyed with what he typically saw on his finger. He discarded the glove and picked up a new device. It was thicker, longer than any digit. The boy’s grunts would probably grow louder.

Andrew watched the body quiver and spasm, not able to identify the foreign object had been inserted, not knowing how to push it out. He had only done this once with a victim who was awake. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as seeing an unconscious face contorting at the sudden inflation of the retention balloon. Emotions were unfiltered when comatose, untainted and true. Will would probably have only faint recollections of receiving an enema, if at all.

Nearly 60 minutes later, Andrew completed his work. Bonds were in place, a few toys ready just a few feet away. Now he proceeded with the least strenuous activity of the night; waiting. His choice of location, however, had plenty of seating to chose from. He waited on a dusty chair beside the tripod, checking the battery often. He was nervous, jittery. He couldn’t help it. This stage was about to commence its greatest performance.

 

When the precious little doe woke, he stopped moving when he heard Andrew’s approaching footsteps. Sweet boy. Andrew stopped when he stood behind him, smelling his skin because the sweat strengthened that musky scent. The ropes were taunt, stretching Will's limbs out like a star. The gag was tight; would probably leave more than brush-burns on the corners of his mouth. His blindfold thick, refusing to give the boy some solace in what was happening. Andrew lingered, allowing adrenaline to rush over him as the trembling body was so close. Andrew finally understood the meaning of _intoxicating_. Sweet Will was vulnerable to him in this erotic condition and the beast within was uncontrollable. Even if he wanted to stop now, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He wanted Will and everything the pale boy had to offer him.

He opened his eyes to gaze out into the dark seating arena, the small red dot helping him locate where to look. Will breathed slowly through the gag, trying to contain his composure although the abductor’s humid breath seeped from behind him. Hammond grabbed Will’s chin suddenly, turning his head to the side so he could collide their mouths together. Lips crashed on gagged ones as a rough hand slid down to envelope his penis. The other traveled around and down to the slit of his ass. Hammond abruptly pushed a finger into his ass, the other squeezing his dick and ignored Will’s muffled protest. The agent thrashed against his finger, fruitlessly. Andrew pulled away just as quickly as he had begun, and slipped his digit out.

Will’s eyes grew wide under the blindfold. The pain was immediate and insufferable, it also made him realize that, although the man’s fingers were dry, his ass, in fact, was not. He felt a warm hand sneak under the long shirt and rest on his bare hip. Even warmer breath hit his ear.

“I got you lubed up, a little practice in while you slept.”

Will emitted a ragged exhale through the gag, saliva beginning to pool on the bottom of his mouth. This stranger, who Graham had to guess was the Ripper (or perhaps he just had horrible luck), had full access to his body to mangle as he pleased. Will never felt this exposed before, at least not physically. The man wanted him to feel embarrassed, like a slut, a victim: forced spread-eagle and half naked. The man’s hands slinked up and under his shirt, slithering over his waist, gliding over his stomach, up his spine, down again, down beyond his hip bones, palming his ass, the backs of his thighs, sliding forward, up, his fingertips trilling up over Will’s pelvis, his stomach. Touching everywhere, but touching nothing. A kind of vicious promise.

Hands pinched the hairs on his chest before tweaking nipples. Will jerked just enough to feel the man pressing behind him. He was erect.

This was _not the Ripper_ , the thought tore through his head. That killer did not sexually abuse his victims. His murders were never motivated by sex. Although he seemed to be an odd outlier for the serial killer, Will knew the Ripper would never go as far as to kidnap him and do this. No, his mind told him, this was different. This was another monster.

Large thumbs found Will’s nipples and Andrew peered over a pale shoulder to watch Will’s face as he rubbed them. Will snarled as much as the gag allowed, hating that it felt the same, that his body didn’t know the difference between this fucker and a lover’s. The human body was amazing and excruciatingly frustrating in this respect; one can be bound and gagged and terrified and still feel the slow burning of arousal.

But then the cold hugged Will when the stranger backed off, and he felt his only protection, the thin and pathetic shirt, rustle around until it bunched near his neck. The man left it there. “ _Please_ ,” Will tried to say, but it only came out as an incoherent noise through the gag. Andrew closed his eyes and sighed, as though he heard the protest clearly, indefinitely, and it aroused him almost more than the sight of his pale body.

The man moved to the front of Will. He knelt over the chest, working the right nipple with his teeth, nipping at it, rolling it back and forth. He did the same ministrations to his other and Will breathed harshly. The sensitive skin was sore, his skin tingled. The agent’s wrists and ankles pulled against his restraints. Andrew pressed into his bare chest harder, straining the ropes Will was bound to and causing him to groan. A knee came up to grind between his legs as he continued to dribble over his chest. Teeth bit into the tender flesh and tears formed behind Will’s eyes. While Will’s rage and indignation burned, the man descended on his other nipple, teasing him with his tongue, slowly circling, prodding, strumming, then finally sucking it between his lips, tugging at it as it hardened in his mouth. Humiliating.

Will had no grasp of time, but it had to have been _minutes_ before the man finally backed away. The shirt stayed bunched up around his neck.

“Are you going to be a good boy for me?” The burly voiced asked and Will only inhaled through his gag. Andrew hit him harshly against an exposed section of his cheek a second later. A bright red mark emerged.

Hammond’s footsteps erupted around the auditorium and Will’s body braced itself for another attack. Adrenaline rocked him, making his ears sensitive to every creak and bend of the wood below. The man lifted something from the floor near-by before standing somewhere behind him once again. Will was on edge, goosebumps racking his legs.

_Crack_

A type of flogger made contact with the flesh of his back and Will bit into the soaked rope. _Jesus-mother-fucking-Christ_. Again and again it whipped his back. Will never felt so receptive before and blamed it on his denied senses. Every blow, he recoiled, eyes clenched shut as he tried to suppress the pain. When he heard the ominous _whoosh_  again, he tried to ready against the inevitable onslaught. The man hit hard, and the incandescent agony ignited a new series of pain. He lashed out repeatedly, burning welts spreading across Will’s backside. The agent shuddered, jerked, twisted, turned. The series of rapid strikes made a staccato rhythm in Will’s head and he struggled to count, to focus on something. One, two, three- _one, two_ -

A searing slice slapped across the backs of his thighs. Will felt cut open and lit on fire at the same time. It moved down to his exposed ass and the back of his pale thighs. No part of his back was missed. Slowly, the man made his way to the front of the agent. He whipped every orifice. His chest stung, as well as the flesh of his stomach. Even his genitals.

Another crack of the device came down on his dick. And another. Three. Four.

Will finally screamed through the gag. It pierced the air already thick with sweat and the smell of fresh blood. His own shriek terrified Will, surrounded by the eerie silence of this all. When women screamed, it was a bellow for someone to protect them, a desperate and frantic plea for help. Men only roared, shouting with determination or anger. When Will screamed, he couldn’t help but provoke a new, profound sense of horror.

_Swack_

The man’s presence was behind him once again. Another scream that simmered into a groan. Will’s skin was _so_ sensitive. He soon couldn’t feel the constant whips: just the pain that accompanied them. His flesh was raw and Will knew it was crimson by now, if not scarred and bleeding. He could feel a wetness running over his ass, between his thighs (was it urine?), down his legs. Sweat trickled into his eyes and his wrists were bleeding from the thrashing he didn’t even register. Thank god for the blindfold: it hid the tears that threatened to escape.

His neck and arms tensed as each stroke landed on battered skin. He threw his head back at one point, letting out a defeated, deep cry that he could draw through the pain. Drool trailed down his chin from jagged breaths. Random limbs spasmed. Minutes passed. After another hit, he finally heard the twine drop to the floor. His stomach convulsed. He could envision small red rivers cascading down his legs and into the floor. His feet were probably stretched over a puddle of blood.

_Just breathe. Focus on breathing_.

Those hands came back from behind Will, extending past his underarms and caressing his chest. Will kept his mouth open as best he could through the gag; _inhale, exhale, inhale_. The man pressed against his battered body, making him whine, as he continued to fondle and cruelly pinch his nipples. Andrew’s fingernails were dirty and due for a trim. They punctured his skin as he made vulgar moans beside Will’s ear. The agent closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his breathing. The pain was unbearable. It felt like he was pulling him part, tearing at his seams until pieces began to fall. A hand began to descend, brashly making its way down his clammy stomach.

Will buckled, trying to escape the assaulting touch, and turned his head away as the man tried to bite his ear. But his captor had the advantage. He cupped his dick and lewdly stroked it. He found his earlobe before using his tongue to trace the outline. His other hand continued to molest his torso, squeezing and crushing and playing with the whip lacerations. He treated Will’s body like it wasn’t one. As though he wasn’t a person, but a toy in the privacy of his bedroom.

Sighing, Andrew’s hands stopped and tugged down Will’s shirt. He listened to the agent seethe as the coarse fabric stuck to his opened gashes. Smiling, he pressed his hands against the bloodiest spots, playing him like a fine instrument. The invading hands, as well as a hot tongue, were back then and exploring his body. He wanted Will to feel degraded.

Normally, with sexually sadistic offenders, they forced a script upon their victims and made them say statements to humiliate themselves and praise their captor. Will was glad for the gag in that respect. He felt the man’s teeth grazed across his tender back before puncturing his neck like a modern day Dracula. Will exhaled a ragged breath when he stopped, but a shift of the air told him something else was coming. He shivered when the mouth landed on his stomach through the fabric, slobbering. The attacker slowly worked his way down his body. Will could feel breath against his member. The man was teasing him, taunting him with his advantage to torture and make Will anxious for what was about to happen.

Sweet Will groaned through the rope at the first long swallow. Andrew grabbed sore hips rough enough to bruise as he took all of Will between his thighs. Will’s ankles were brush-burned by the course rope as he struggled, and Andrew smiled, kneeling under him and slipping his head under the long shirt. Will grunted, disgusted with the monster taking in the most intimate part of his body and bile rose when he felt a tongue. Andrew used his hands to lift the underside of Will’s thighs as far as the rope would allow. The male groaned from this as well, the backs of his legs battered from the recent whippings.

_He’s going to fucking bite it off. He’s going to bite it off, bite it off-_

Will tried to lift himself off of him, but the attacker's hands held him with a strong determination. Will’s dick was engulfed by the man’s mouth. He moved his hands against Will’s hips so the body would grind against his face in the darkness between his legs.

His cock strained against his pants when he tasted the first subtle bitterness to Will. His ministrations began to work. The man moved his tongue to circle Will‘s length, his sensitive tip, and he heard Will gasp as he flicked over the tip again and again in a rapid motion. His squirming grew more violent, he didn’t care about the blood beading from his wrists.

Andrew inhaled the sweet scent, increasing more and more against the boy’s wishes. Will’s body began to respond to the touches. Andrew pulled him harder onto his face, continuing his long strokes, his tongue twirling around the length as precome coated his mouth. Not able to wait any longer, he drove the cock as far as he could down his throat, humming; the vibrations making Will’s body shiver and jerk. Will was hard.

His cock pressing against his pants almost painfully, Andrew stood up and studied the boy, purposely moving off to the side just so. He admired his work. The state of Sweet Will literally drove him insane; the sight of his heaving chest, the feel of his twisting and bruised muscles, the taste of his sweat, the sound of his moans. Andrew knew that his self-control reached its limit; the clench in his stomach and the maddening heat between his legs screamed at him to take action. Again, he stood behind Will, allowing for the small red dot in the audience its best view.

He pressed his body against the agent’s sore back. Hammond then wrapped both hands around him and plunged fingers into his ass. Will pushed against him, still fighting, as he began to massage inside the passageway. He did so with rough motions, feeling the muscles blocking him out. His walls contracted wildly so Andrew manhandled Will, pressing the smaller male against him more so he could shove his entire hand between his legs. A second finger pressed its way into him. It was surprisingly tight for a pretty young boy. He slipped his fingers out for just a moment to swipe against his back. With blood on his digits, the man swooped back inside Will and earned his loudest protest yet. Blood from both his hand and from his ass dribbled down, adding to the puddle below. His two fingers criss-crossed and twirled, opening him up against the quivering walls with his lubricant.

Through his moans and grunts, the man rarely spoke to Graham. It was just as unnerving as the torture itself.

With one brutal shove deeper into Will, he expelled his fingers with a wet pop and wiped himself on his sensitive thighs. His body trembled from its handling. Sweat made his hair stick to his head and neck. The man smiled, almost giddy, and sauntered around him to look once more. Breathing was violent, wrists looked like they would scar from the restraints. His nipples puckered, blood from his earlier handiwork began to crust. His legs were littered with thousands of tiny little red ribbons. Bruises began to bloom. Will Graham would be ruined for the Ripper.

He stood directly in front of Will for the first time and grabbed his head to still it. He tried to thrash, but the man knew Will’s sore arms could only take so much. Andrew bit into his neck. He took his time nibbling on the thin skin along his collarbone and down to his chest. He sucked on each nipple, making tasteless moans as his hands gripped Will’s hips and ass so hard they would leave bruises.

He felt dead. Will was sure his hands would snap off from the restraints or, at the very least, dislocate from the weight of his limp body.

Hammond smiled once more before walking away, out of the light and into the darkness.

Will tried to spit out copper blood through the gag and yelped from the pain when he arched his back. His nipples felt like they would fall off. His legs quivered and his arms shook involuntarily. He wanted to smack himself when he realized he feared the man was just going to leave him there. But then those footsteps returned and Will knew the next course of action was unavoidable. His ears pricked at the soft sound of a zipper. He bit into the rope, readying.

And then he felt it.

Hammond pressed his cock between Will’s aching legs as he forced him forward for a better angle. Andrew began to push, his length already slick with fresh blood trailing down Will‘s skin. Graham grinded his teeth into the rope, shaking his head, feeling the tip probing his entrance before pushing fully inside. His gagged protests echoed off the stage’s walls. Hammond pushed himself inside, wanting this to be brutal for the boy. Every sound, every facial expression was key for this plan to reach its full effect. The grip of his ass around his length made the man see stars for a moment; it was intoxicating. His brown hair like Heather’s, like Tim's, and his hips angled out into a beautiful arch. He was so tight and precious. Yes, he could definitely understand the Ripper’s entrancement with the boy.

He pumped his length in and out of Will’s entrance, going slow and erratically fast in a pattern Will couldn’t predict. As the man fucked into his bound body, he drank in all the strained groans. Andrew thrusted hard and fast, enjoying the way his body meshed into Will‘s. The front of his suit looked like it was painted red. The sadistic treatment of this boy was key, and so the man laughed as he continued to make him bleed. His cock was bloody with each pull from him. He grasped Will’s dick from behind and bit into his neck in a frenzy. Graham screamed.

“I can play your boyfriend like a piano, Ripper!”

Andrew fisted a hand in his hair, pulling Will’s head up and into an uncomfortable arch. His irregular breathing soon matched the boy‘s. From behind, he used his other hand to feel Will’s length again, roughly squeezing it enough to bruise. The man’s rhythm increased and his bucks grew harder and deeper. Tears fell from Will’s eyes, dampening his blindfold. The attacker was violent, unrelenting. But when Will heard a long, languid groan from behind, he knew it was soon over.

Andrew thrusted himself fully into him, all the way inside when he felt a warm, wet shock deep within his body. Hot liquid burned internal wounds and Will opened his mouth in a silent scream from the pain. Eventually, Andrew pulled back and swiped a finger against his dripping entrance before shoving it into Will’s mouth. The taste was horrendous, but Will only closed his eyes and recoiled from the action.

He smiled and slipped his finger out, wiping the saliva and semen remains on Will’s shoulder. “Good boy. Just one more thing and act one is done.”

He pushed away from Graham’s assaulted back and took in his rage from the release of pressure. He tucked his bloody cock back into his pants and searched the floor around him. He picked up his knife in the dark before stepping back into the circle of light and kneeling in front of Will. His oblivious face made Andrew smile yet again (and tempted him for a second round, but ultimately decided against it) and he brought the sharp blade up right above the dark curls of his groin.

“You move and I’ll gut you.”

Will swallowed and tensed his hands against the ropes to steady his body. The man carved into pale flesh and Will bit his soaked gag to suppress more screams. The pain was immense, overwhelming, and Will felt his vision blotting out from the blade. _Exhale, inhale. Exhale_.

The man carved into his skin, his tongue darting out with an expression of utter engrossment on his face. He left his brand on the hide of his body and squinted at his finished product. Branding was in poor taste, but he knew the Ripper would have an attitude toward the mark. One he would enjoy fantasizing about for days, weeks, years to come.

Finally coming off his high, the man swayed a little standing up and smiled into the pain-stricken face of his victim. He cupped Will’s face with mock tenderness and then walked away without saying a word.

Graham panicked for a second, the realization that he would leave him there to bleed out donning fast, before he heard a lever squeak and his ropes suddenly go slack. He fell like a rag doll. His mind flat-lined. Moments passed that Will couldn’t account for. _Exhale, inhale, exhale_. 

The sound of footsteps echoed. Then nothing. 

\- - -

Andrew tested the newly taunt ropes. Will was in his same spread position, but now his beaten back rested on the stage. He grabbed the legs, spreading them apart more so he was exposed better. He trembled as he worked, leaning down to position his tip against the tender hole, it already pulsing and swollen once more. Fucking Will while he was conscious was beautiful, but at least now Andrew wouldn’t have to deal with the constant thrashing. He pushed forward and his dick entered him with little difficulty; blood was an excellent lubricant.

Andrew thrusted his hips forward and went enough inside to be completely enveloped by Will’s center. The pale man groaned in a drugged pain, coming around, but Andrew didn’t care. He thrusted inside again and his dick sank another inch. Then another as he forced his hips down. Will, becoming more aware by the minute, let out another groan; louder than last time. Andrew continued to buck inside and felt the muscles in the walls of Will’s ass choke his length. He was deep enough to feel his body heat rocketing his length and it enraptured him.

Will let out a loud scream, so Andrew leaned forward and met his mouth with his own, kissing him hard. The tongue that had been wrapped around Will’s cock was now in his mouth, wrestling with his own tongue. Will was delirious, confused. Andrew pulled off of him and noticed that he was crying. His expression one of torture. He pulled out his dick, blood on it, and thrusted inside again, down to the hilt.

The agent screamed, weakly thrashing in the rope. Andrew continued to dive out and into him. He watched Will’s pale, pitiful face. His body shook and his hair was wet with traces of blood. He was under Andrew’s control, becoming a part of him just as he was part of Will.

\- - -

When Will woke up, he expected to find himself on a lonely street or even back at his car in the academy’s parking lot. Instead, he woke to the same blindfold and the same fucking rope. Except now he was laying on a floor. With the gag removed, Will couldn’t help but let out a choked howl from the pain of his back and ass. His wrists throbbed from the course twine, his ankles felt dislocated from earlier thrashing. Baring teeth, he still tested the bonds of rope that spread him out. Anger was better than despair, better than giving up and succumbing to his injuries and the crazed man. He clung to his rage with every fiber of his being.

Those familiar footsteps pricked his ears again and his body involuntarily shivered. Will growled at the man’s quiet laughter, knowing he was watching him, assessing.

And Andrew was. He stood a few feet away, gazing down at the naked, bound boy in front of him. While he slept, Hammond cleaned the most extensive wounds and sterilized the marking between the hipbones. The bound man stopped bleeding for the most part, but Hammond knew most closed injuries would reopen soon.

“You’re not screaming. Good. No one would hear you out here anyway.”

Will remained silent, refusing to give into his taunts. Andrew moved towards him, watching as his body tensed and the restraints held secure. Will’s little pale hands clenched into fists as hands traced across his stomach and sides. The man explored the bruises and scars across taught, nervous muscle. “You know what’s coming,” he said as he grabbed the back of Will’s neck to pull his head up at a painful angle. He pressed his lips against an ear. “Are you afraid?” He dipped his tongue into the curves of Will’s ear, swirling before sinking his teeth into the lobe. “Or are you enjoying this?”

He tried to jerk his head away and the notion made him release him. Will’s skull smacked onto the ground below. He felt the assailant move, now sitting or kneeling between his spread legs. Andrew watched Will’s face as his fingers roamed around his thighs and stomach, cutting up to his chest before trailing back down. Will tried to escape all this, tried to avoid the violating touch by fleeing into his mind.

Smiling softly, Andrew delivered a slick, sharp penetration in the boy’s abused opening. Will was brought back, crashing fast and hard. A strangled sound seeped out of his throat and Will would have clenched if not knowing how much more pain would come from it. Hammond’s finger slid in and out of the tight, hot passage, and it already began to fill his pants with a deliciously heavy sensation. Desiring more contact with the pretty brunet, Andrew draped his clothed body over the small man. Propping his head on his hand, the man watched Will’s pinched face as he added a second finger, sliding up to the knuckles and working side to side deep within.

Will breathed deep and slow, trying to tolerate the pain as best he could. The fingers had been taking a slow, easy pace but then he picked up speed and purposely avoided hitting his hidden bundle of nerves. Shifting, Andrew shoved a third finger while ignoring Will’s shriek and he admired the emotions dancing across his face. He dove the three fingers deep and spread them out brutally. Will’s muscles tightened involuntarily around the digits, and it only increased the levels of torment twisting through the boy. Smirking, Andrew refused to release the burning stretch of his fingers and waited for Will to finally speak. His breathing picked up substantially, his limbs began to squirm. Will’s instincts screamed at him to do something, anything.

“Want it to stop?”

Will wheezed, sweat rapidly forming on the underside of his back and atop his forehead. “Y-yes!”

The fingers collapsed in and slid out in one fluid motion. A broken sob fell from his mouth as the invasion ended and he turned his cheek to rest on the floor. Andrew watched Will, using those same fingers to filter through his downcast hair and pushed loose strands away from his face. His lips were only a little chapped and rough from the gag earlier. Although his cock was getting ready for a release, fucking Will’s mouth wouldn’t be the best idea. Teeth were strong.

Instead, he leaned back and sat on his legs. He pulled his zipper down, shoving his pants around his knees before covering the boy’s body once again. Lowering onto Will, he guided his hard member into his opening. A tear trickled from under the agent’s blindfold. Clumsily, he wiped away the tear trail from his cheek. “Aw. Sweet boy. I didn’t even start yet.”

Will opened his mouth, shut it, then opened it again. “I-I’m….crying f-for you.” It was surreal to hear his own voice, as though it confirmed that this wasn’t all a nightmare. “I think…about all the things….I want to do…to y-you. It's...frightening.”

Andrew Hammond grimaced. With one violent shove, he entered him.

\- - -

Hannibal Lecter crouched to be on eye-level with his countertop, carefully pouring the sauce along the two plates.

Heart tartare for the appetizer, beef tongue prepared with mushrooms in a Maderia sauce and prosciutto roses with various vegetables for the main dish. He planned every entrée thoroughly, using various meats he acquired over the last two months. Although the doctor enjoyed the evoked sensations when he ate his prepared food, as well as watching others, there was something absolutely mesmerizing about watching Will Graham in his dining room. The way the profiler brought each small bite of meat to his lips, how his tongue caressed and rolled over every corner; tasting and dissecting, fully savoring. Lecter was aware he had a difficult time looking away when the young man slowly ate, and he would have to remember furtive glances only.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just how the male ate his victims that made the stoic doctor stare. Will Graham possessed a classically beautiful face, one any Greek sculptor would have wanted to capture and make immortal. Unlike most men, the agent had soft angles that made his sharp eyes stand out all the more. Those deep bluish hues. Lecter enjoyed the nights he could watch Will work at a crime scene. He was a different person than the bumbling Graham in his lecture hall. His shoulders would slump and his voice would get abnormally deep and monotone as he studied the blood splatter and the corpse. Even his eyes grew darker, damper; hungry for the latest serial killer as he tried to understand him. Will Graham was unlike any patient, any agent, any human Hannibal had ever met before. He was beautiful and deadly, a medical and psychiatric abnormality. He wanted to get inside his head and explore every corner, study him. Lecter didn’t want to rearrange the wiring. At least, not yet.

Right now, the tall doctor just wanted to have an enjoyable dinner. Take pleasure in the fact Lecter had the young man to himself for the evening, his company and exclusive attention where they could eat and socialize. Friend to friend. He always marveled at the pure, wholesome luck that brought Will to Hannibal. Unspoiled luck that they met at all, and were placed on Jack Crawford’s team. But that was the first thing Lecter grew fond of him for, compared to the other members. He wasn’t predictable. Will was a polite, but skittish nearly all hours of the day.

Maybe it was pure, divine fate that brought Will to Hannibal Lecter. His mind caught in a continual loop from that thought, replaying the memory of Will analyzing the first crime scene the Ripper had crafted for him-

_Jack, like most of the present crew, had to wear a mask to block out the rotting smell._

_The location was just outside the quiet city, a few miles away from an old milling factory. There was nothing but open field for four miles, then one would barely see the outline of a dense forest in the dark of the night. The corpse was a male, somewhere in his mid twenties to early thirties with medium-length brown hair that had gentle curls. He was skinny, pale. If Will Graham hadn’t been already at the scene, Jack would have made Alana stay in the car. It cadaver looked unnervingly like the profiler._

_The similarities were uncanny. The body had been dead for day or a few hours, it was still too early to tell, and it was intricately positioned similar to an Egyptian mummy with arms crossed over the chest. Pedals, pink, surrounded the corpse. There was a delicate stitching on a pectoral._

_Hannibal stood near the cluster of cars, paying no mind to Jack talking to a police chief nearby, and focused on Will. He was alone with the crime scene a few yards away, studying the body and using his keen sense of empathy to understand what had happened. He watched, carefully, as minutes passed and Will began to sway a little on his feet. Would he faint? No. Hannibal was too far away to hear the gasp, but Will’s body made it clear he was startled by the mind of the killer. A hand instinctively went down to his pants, before realizing he was in public._

_Hannibal tilted his head at the strange sight, curious to know what Will would do with his newfound problem. The curiosity was satisfied seconds later when Will uncomfortably scurried to a lone tree. No doubt to position the erection between his pants and stomach. Almost certainly thinking of ways to conceal the issue with his jacket._

_When he returned, his strange disappearance was only noted by a longer than usual stare from Crawford. “It’s a poem,” Will jumped right into it, not wanting to explain._

_“What kind of messed up poet does this?”_

_"Well…” Will pulled a tight smile. “One can assume the person this is meant for is, uh, messed up.”_

_“Another killer? Or_ you _?” Alana suggested. “Pink roses suggest appreciation, admiration.”_

_“It certainly looks that way. This man looks strikingly like you, Will.” Hannibal took a step closer, examining the grotesque scene with an unblinking eye._

_"There’s an incision on his side.” Will noted as he continued to actively not look at the man._

_"Will?” Jack crossed his arms. The flashing patrol lights made the morbid scene oddly festive._

_“It’s the Ripper. He took a trophy, the heart. He set this up like a spectacle. This setting is…purposeful. The…display of the flowers,” He gestured to the plants scattered on the ground, “signify an admiration. Yes. An appreciativeness of another’s work. The stitching design? A poetic gesture. It doesn't make much sense, though.”_

_“What doesn't?” Alana asked._

_"I know this is the Ripper. Same skill and meticulousness. But why is he the one…beckoning? It’s always been the other way around.”_

_"The person of his intention must be rather special.” Hannibal said._

_Will looked uncomfortable, much more than usual. Even at night, the redness on his cheeks rose like a second sun. “Yeah, well, then dating must be hard. The serial killer pond is probably a one sparse to fish in, I imagine. I don't think his intended audience is special, though. I think the Ripper just wants the other to know he admires their work. He wants to shake them up.”_

_Alana shifted in her boots, but refused to bring up the symbolism Ripper's latest kill. She watched Will walk away, adjusting his pants._

_"Alright. Let’s get this cleaned up. We got a long night ahead of us.” Jack said._

Hannibal had, by now, set the table accordingly and folded his apron along a kitchen’s clean counter. He looked at the table, gauging the food’s temperature, before glancing at his clock. It was nearing 6:30 even though Will had confirmed a 6:00 arrival. That was one of the many things he and the other man had in common; they were punctual. Rarely late, seldom rude. They also lived in a time where communication was extraordinarily easy. Just one call, one text message with a handful of words, and Lecter would understand that something had come up. Jack, most likely.

Purposely, Hannibal had invited Will on this evening to join him for dinner. He had been following the professor’s schedule well enough to know tonight would be another night studying the Ripper case. Though he had not planned on watching Will work, he had intended to converse with him just hours before his eyes would turn black. Hannibal wanted him in close proximity, to know whether or not he could tell just by looking at him if he was anxious for the night ahead. Would he see more killer in Will’s eyes as they mingled over red wine and beef, or would he be in control of his fragile mind to still have the beast simmered behind locked doors?

Dr. Lecter cleaned his kitchen and most of the dishes used for cooking by now. His apron was put in the laundry, his dried washcloth hung securely on the sink’s faucet. It was almost 7:00 and still there was no disheveled brunet knocking on his door, apologizing in a frenzy. He gave one last glance at the cooling food before picking up the phone and dialing a number he knew by heart. But Will did not answer. Another sign something was amiss. Unless he was asleep, caught in nightmares of his own making, the young man answered the phone with a diligent hello. Part of helping the FBI was knowing how irritated Jack Crawford could become if he couldn’t reach his team members.

Calmly but swiftly, Hannibal dialed another number.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Alana. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Lecter? No, you caught me at a good time. I’m finishing up a report. Just about to catch a briefing from Jack.”

“How is the new case going?” Hannibal asked, “Jack tells me you might be looking at a partnership.”

“Yes. A couple, husband and wife. Or boyfriend-girlfriend. Will thinks the woman is luring the victims into their car -pretending to be lost, and the male does the worse of it. No evidence, but Jack is on board with the idea.”

“Good. I looked over the case details as well. I agree.”

There was a pause on the other end, followed by, “Did you call me to talk about the case, Dr. Lecter?”

“I wanted to inquire about a possible duo killer, yes, but I am also curious as to whether you have seen Will today.”

“Hm.” Another gap of sound. “I saw his car this morning, actually. Haven’t seen him around though. Why? What’s going on?”

Hannibal began to walk toward the closet for his jacket and keys. “Nothing concerning, Alana. Graham had misplaced his phone in the labs and I was hoping to return it.”

“Oh, that explains it. Jack tried reaching him around noon and had no luck. I’ll let him know-” The woman gave a relieved laugh, “-that he’s not ignoring him to have a day off.”

Hannibal Lecter drove to Quantico immediately, driving in silence and attempting to call Will one more time. It could be a false alarm; a number of innocent, poorly timed incidents that led the male to miss dinner and not answer his phone. He could be sick. He could be at the shooting range and lost track of time. He could be dealing with more reporters about the Ripper and attempting to hide from them. Or he could be injured. Dead. He may have gotten into trouble with disturbed minds that the Ripper attracted. He gripped his steering wheel harder before controlling himself.

Hannibal had been careful. He watched over Will carefully the last few months, since the Ripper made his fondness for the man known and Lounds wrote a sensationalized article about it. He made sure it was just penniless reporters that racked Graham’s brain with annoyance; not other, ominous threats. Lecter knew the man could defend himself if he ever found himself fighting for his life, but that chance greatly diminished if he was attacked somewhere alone. At his house or when he walked into the woods. Hannibal tried to make sure that never happened. 

In the parking lot, with only a handful of cars, Lecter easily spotted the agent’s old vehicle and parked close to it. He frowned, walking closer. It was in the same section and spot as the day prior. Will never made it home. Hannibal stood in front the car, eyeing the keys laying just a few feet away from the door. He peered inside a window without touching it. Nothing appeared to be stolen or broken into. There were odd scuff marks on the hood, unnatural dents that wouldn’t be caused by anything while driving. There was a struggle.

Lecter stood straight, eyeing various light fixtures in the large lot. Every stadium-sized light had a security camera pointed along each aisle of cars. The one Will’s car was parked in, however, the camera was pointed almost directly down: aiming at the ground below it. Someone had repositioned the security recording. Hannibal gave one last scan around and under Will’s car before heading back to his own. He had enough clues to have an idea of what transpired, and it wasn’t good. He slammed his door shut.

He knew deranged persons may target Will because of his ties with the Chesapeake Ripper, but it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. No one had contacted the Ripper via newspaper or murder. There was no evidence or indicator that someone would just crack the Earth open and swallow Graham whole. He was familiar with other serial killers beckoning him. It’s what most, if not all, psychopaths enjoyed. Bragging privileges, speaking to someone they consider “like them”, baiting the Ripper. But this wasn’t baiting him. This was something else entirely.

\- - -

“How is he doing?” Heather peeked outside the bay window.

Andrew had just closed the front door and made a B-line for the kitchen’s sink; his hands and forehead wore a layer of fatherhood grime. “Fine, I guess. Seemed to be more happy to give that boy down the street his training wheels than actually riding a the damn thing.”

She gave a crooked smile, watching as Timmy used a dry cloth to clean his new bike in the driveway. He had only tried riding a few times with Andrew before he decided the wheels needed a good cleaning. She could tell dad was ecstatic with the idea. “He’s sharing at his age. That’s good.”

“Hm.”

Heather laughed, crossing the large, modern kitchen to sling her arms around his, and kissed him. “He’s going to grow up to be _just like you,_ you know.”

“Well, we hoped for a girl, huh?”

Heather snickered for a second time.


	3. Chapter 3

“You screamed a lot, Will.”

Will Graham stared into the corpse of Abigail Hobbs, her eyes hollowed out with skin falling like cracked leaves. They laid stiff on a stained kitchen floor, face to face on their sides, feeling cramped. He couldn’t move. He stared, breathless, into the two holes where her eyes once were.

“Wha- _what_?”

“It was a weird sound,” the corpse said. “I never really heard you scream before.”

Will continued to stare. A hallucination never looked more real. He could see the scar along a rotting neck. Red ribbon, like a schoolgirls, poked out of the wound and slithered onto the linoleum.

“It’s okay. You’re okay. This is nothing like the day at my house.” When she smiled, teeth were missing. Flesh flaked off her forehead.

“Yes…it is. I’m-I’m still alive.”

“You are. You need to wake up so you can stay that way, okay?”

Tears began to blur his vision.

“Will?”

He sobbed, his body shaking.

“You need to wake up now. Okay? Will?”

\- -

Will gasped, waking on the floor of a dark room. Though he did not know it, he had been laying there, unconscious, for hours. He clutched his head with both hands and, fearing a concussion, made a note to not fall asleep if he could help it. Nausea invaded his senses like a merciless army, waiting to lash out when the enemy least expected it. Will pressed his head against the cool, rotting floor and breathed deep, hoping for the sensation to pass. He tried to focus on his surroundings to distract himself, but found the memories rushing, springing back into his conscious. His stomach twisted and limbs shook. To ensure he wasn’t confusing dreams with reality, Will bent his head down to look at his body.

He only grew more confused. How was this mess of flesh _his_? Will pressed his eyes shut then opened them, but the sight remained. His body was beaten. Deep abrasions circled his wrists and ankles. Bruises decorated his body like a morbid Christmas tree. There was an excruciating soreness between his legs and his muscles were wrecked with the tension they were bound in, spasming. Blood stained the crumbling wood around him. Whimpers vibrated in his throat as he peeled his thighs apart, dried blood crusting away and making tender skin throb.

He bit his lip, stifling more sounds, and used leftover strength to push the nausea back and finally gauge his surroundings. Decaying wallpaper littered the abandoned playhouse and toppled seats were covered with dust. There was disturbed dirt everywhere on the stage, but any evidence of what happened disappeared. There were no blood soaked ropes, no blindfold or whip. The man left him with the red-stained shirt that he decided to keep on: not to maintain modesty, it just hurt too much to maneuver it off. He tried to ignore the injuries as they tingled back to life, as well as the foreign substance that stuck along his thighs.

There were no windows in the playhouse; just a door barely on its hinges somewhere behind the last row of chairs. Will had no idea what time it was. How long he had been abducted. Was he declared a missing person? Were the dogs alright?

Slowly, he rolled onto his back and stifled a grunt. His muscles were horrendously sore, he learned with a silent scream. The dirty floor was less than ideal for a back with open wounds. Graham tried to work through the pain, lifting himself up slowly by his elbows, then finally, on shaking knees, he came to a pitiable stand. He had to lean against walls or frail seats, but he steadily made his way off the stage and out of the damn stadium. With every footstep, there was a sound to accompany it. He didn’t have the coordination to avoid brittle wood or dry leaves that had found their way inside with stormy winds. Will choose to ignore his mind screaming at him to keep quiet, that the man could come back. He wasn’t concerned with the possibility of stepping on nails or losing too much blood with each step.

He had to get out of there.

“It wasn’t your fault, Will.”

Will continued to limp down a graffiti-covered hallway that looked ready to cave in. The voice was Hannibal's, but he was sober enough to understand it was just in his head. He tried to organize his thoughts. He had to attend the injuries as quickly as possible, assuming he would survive long enough to make it outside. Assuming he hadn’t been missing long enough to rise suspicions. With any luck, no one should be at his house. He could clean himself up there, take a few personal days, and find the man who did this.

“You can talk to me, Will. That’s why I’m here.” Dr. Lecter stood just out of his peripheral vision, his suit pristine with hands clasped behind his back.

Will didn’t realize he began to cry. He focused on the dim light at the end of the hallway, pressing hands against an old wall for support. How would he reach his house? He was naked, wearing nothing but a thin shirt he didn’t want to know the origins to. He had no money for a cab or a payphone. No idea where he even was.

“You did not deserve what happened to you, Will. Are you going to kill him? Like the killers you hunt? Law regulation wouldn’t be as satisfying, in this case.”

Will continued to walk to where he assumed the exit was, stumbling and dizzy and aching. His ability to even move was laughable, and he wondered if it was from the loss of blood or just his head. Maybe it was the overload taking its toll. “Stop talking, please.” He wiped his eyes. This was no time for self-pity.

“I’m here when you need me, Will. You know that.”

Will slowly made his way to an eerie side entrance of the old building and pressed himself against grimy doors. The dirt and trash from the floors covered his blood-encrusted feet and the hallway was lit only through the clouded glass, casting odd shadows inside. If he hadn’t already encountered a monster, it would have been the opportune time for it to show its face peeking behind a doorway behind him.

Through the glass, he scanned the outside.

A cracked sidewalk led to a cracked, residential road. Overgrown bushes lined an old fence that possessed no gate. He spotted a tanned Oldsmobile alero on the other side of the street, probably belonging to an occupant of the rundown townhouse a few yards away. It was his best option in his pain-induced head. There was a slim chance of being seen with the overgrown landscape shielding him like a rabbit hiding from a hawk. He hobbled his way out with a push of the door.

The sun had risen and Will hoped he was gone for just a night; not 36 hours. Working for the FBI, that was just as good as being dead. He prayed no one had noticed his disappearance. At the fence, Will stopped and examined the surroundings once more. The street was lined with widely spread townhouses. There were no sounds other than his staggered breathing and the occasional breeze that rustled nearby plants. The cool air felt strange against his groin. If someone would spot him, they wouldn’t try to assist. Oh no. They would think a demon crawled its way from Hell. Maybe this was how ghost stories got their start.

Trying to ignore awful pain with each step, Will hustled to the dingy car and leaned against the door. The pain was nothing he had ever experienced before, the urge to scream intensified. He exposed himself to all sorts of dangers by consulting with the FBI, but rape was something he never actually considered happening to him. A brutal violation paired with a vicious beating. His body felt ready to fall apart, like organs were already failing and scolding him to just lay down and give up. His head agreed; _no body can withstand something like this_.

It took an extraordinary amount of effort to break the window with a nearby rock. He noticed one of his fingers was missing its nail. He cleared broken glass off the seat.

Inside, Will let out a few pained gasps. Some shouts of frustration. He gripped the steering wheel, closing the door, and allowed himself more moments of pity before hotwiring the vehicle. His ass stung.

 

It was surreal to drive naked, and difficult with injuries that would probably earn him at a stay at the hospital for a few weeks. Understanding pain, working through it, Will grit his teeth and pressed the gas with a bare foot. He prayed any onlookers wouldn’t notice a naked man driving and scolded himself for not removing the license plate. But when he finally reached the first main intersection, he blinked. The area was recognizable. _Thank god_. He was in the outskirts of the city. Closer to his house than he thought. His limbs trembled throughout the drive, his head bobbed and he increased his speed instead of slowing when his vision began to blur. The car grazed sidewalks and he didn’t acknowledge traffic laws.

The seats’ itchy fabric added to the infections already forming on his skin. He needed antibiotics and a long bath. Medicine and gauze. His throat felt like it was on fire. And his ass. And dick. And everywhere else. The carving below his belly button tingled in a way that told him it was contaminated. Will was grateful he woke when he did; any later and he wouldn't have woken back up at all. Did his attacker assume he would die in that old playhouse? Was he just a walking corpse? Will hoped so. Then the man wouldn’t try another attack. The disturbing thought of how venerable he was waking through the building donned on him as he drove. What if the man had been coming back to dispose of his body?

Seeing his house just beyond some trees was dreamlike, as though he expected the entire world to turn nightmarish after his ordeal.

No cars were in the driveway. No police tape lined his house. Nothing seemed out of place. Will parked the stolen car behind the isolated haven and stumbled onto the back porch. It took him minutes to try to bend over for the key behind a brick in the wall. Winston barked wildly from the other side. He left the door open, feeling his dogs run past to relieve themselves. He didn’t care about anything but his body right now. He used counters and furniture to help him to the bathroom. Trinkets fell and photo frames shattered. Among the many miracles that happened so far, Will found himself most grateful for the fact the bathroom was on ground floor.

He fell inside the shower, exhausted, and threw off the foul shirt riding his short-lived momentum, before turning the water on full blast. Steam rose as he sat on the floor, relishing as grime swirled down the drain. Eventually he reached out to adjust the knobs, wanting it warmer, and his eyes locked on the bloodied contusions around his wrists. He had been restrained, promptly raped. Him, Will Graham. A FBI profiler and a psychoanalyst professor. Just taken from a damn parking lot, the FBI’s parking lot, and beaten and intimately violated.

Tightened in the fetal position, the water fell across the plains of his back. Streams of water drifted off to his sides while others rushed down and over his tightly shut eyes. He was silent inside the shower, blocking out the outside world as he took his much-needed moment to just sit in an emotional turmoil. After several minutes, he clenched his fists and used the tiled walls to help himself stand. He grabbed the soap quickly before the strength left him.

Will washed carefully. When prodding the area that produced the most pain, he fought through it, refusing to give any outward appearance of the very intimate discomfort. He didn’t need to save any semen remains. He wasn’t going to convict this man through law. That wouldn’t satisfy him.

Will stayed in the shower for forty minutes before finally coming out with slightly less-stiff muscles. Sitting on the cool wooden floor, he opened the bottom cabinet with a clumsy hand and spilled a large container of medical supplies. Living so far away from civilization, Graham knew to be prepared in case of an emergency. This was overqualified.

Time to work. No more crying. No more reliving memories until he decreased his chances of death. He pushed aside his pity and anger, and tried to take his time as he examined his body more closely. Will treated his biggest abrasions by pulling out small debris with sterilized tweezers, and covered his body with cheap antibiotic ointment before wrapping with gauze. As he bent over to inspect the insides of his thighs, the man paused. Although the letters were upside down and jagged, he could read what the man had carved just above sparse hairs.

_**RIPPER** _

He stared at the word, pulling at the skin, for an amount of time he couldn’t account for. Will knew whoever took him from the parking lot, beat and raped him, was not the Chesapeake Ripper, as the marking implied. It wasn’t the killer’s style, even with the evidence of his fascination with Will. This wasn’t a brand from the Ripper, Will thought, it was a message _to_ him.

Timothy Hammond. A playhouse.

It made sense now.

With experienced hands, he applied cream and bandages. He numbed his mind, focusing on his physical health. He would have to wear long sleeves for a number of weeks. High-rise shirts or scarves. Maybe purchase concealer for the spots near his ears. It was tricky to attend his back wounds, but the cooling sensations the gel supplied were incredible. He managed okay.

The entire process took little under two hours. Most of his body resembled a poorly patched mummy in the end. He couldn’t recall more than half of the wounds that decorated his body as he worked. Will vaguely wondered if the fucker had fun while he was unconscious. He put the dirty shirt in a plastic bag for safe keeping and, with a small mirror, he ignored his ghastly appearance and concentrated on his eyes. Will concluded not having any head injuries. _Thank god_. He took pills for treatable STI’s. Pain relief. Made a note to purchase more medications he would need. It was difficult, writing. It looked as though he reverted back to second grade.

Slowly and stiffly, Will draped himself in a robe and walked to his kitchen for ice packs. On the couch he sat with wet hair framing his face and cold compresses lining raised legs. He wanted to fall asleep, to just let his injuries heal and watch old reruns on television. Pretend everything he just witnessed was a vision of some other victim. The impulse to close open doors was too bothersome, though. He had to much to do before he could even consider a restful sleep.

Winston came running from the kitchen and licked his outstretched hand.

\- -

Hannibal Lecter was thirty minutes away from Will Graham's house when his cell phone rang. He picked it up without looking away from the road in front of him.

“Dr. Lecter?” The voice was rough, but he immediately recognized it.

“Hello, Will.”

“Hi. Um, I realize it’s, uh, almost eight-thirty. I think - _cough_ \- I missed your dinner.”

“It’s all right. I admit I was concerned until now. I know you to be a bit more punctual. And aware of my cancellation policy.”

Another cough. “I’ve been sick since last night,” he admitted, “and I have no idea where it came from. I’ve been puking or sleeping all night and day. I feel… horrible for not calling. I lost track of time. I‘m sorry, really.”

“I understand. Alana noticed your car was still at the academy with your keys laying on the ground. She thought something had happened.”

“I ended up getting a ride from Price.” Hannibal heard a frustrated groan. “I must’ve dropped my keys. I called Jack. He’s upset, but I’m taking a few personal days. I can barely leave the bathroom let alone my house.”

“Of course. If your symptoms persist, do not hesitate reaching me. I have had plenty experience with stomach illnesses at the hospital, I would hate for you to suffer longer than needed.”

“Thanks, but I’m going to try to ride this out. But if I - _cough_ \- start puking organs, I’ll let you know. And, um, assuming the invitation still stands, rain check on dinner?”

“Certainly. I look forward to your recovery.”

 

A few seconds later, Will hung up the phone as he laid across the couch.

As a child, he would lay off his small bed, using the odd positioning to make his voice coarse and sick-sounding through the door so his dad would allow him to miss school. He didn’t need to revert back to those childish tactics when lying to Doctor Lecter; although he certainly sick, it wasn’t from a common cold. He had called Price minutes earlier, telling the lab technician he had driven Will home the night prior. No questions were asked.

It’s been hours since he first arrived bloody and beaten at his house. He made his calls, got rid of the stolen car after thoroughly cleaning it, and changed his bandages a number of times. Nothing needed stitches, but the pain seeped through thin layers of the gel so quickly that Will had to keep applying more and more. His pills could only do so much, apparently. He gave Jack an estimation of one week to recover from his illness, per a (fake) doctor’s request from the hospital. One week should give Will’s worse wounds some time to heal. Ideally, he should at least stop limping by then.

Just a few feet away on a table laid Timothy Hammond’s case file from some weeks prior.

\- -

“Tell me what we got here.”

Zeller shrugged. Price gave him a face before squinting at the scene before him. He eyed the naked corpse tied into a praying position against the old tree stump. The pieces of bark acted as a crown around her head, and her pale, beaten skin was bruised with slashes and shallow cuts. Crawford approached the men, but it was his looming shadow that made Price jump. Dr. Lecter was beside the director, titling his head at the odd scene, making his own quiet assumptions.

“Well, this is going to happen again.”

Jack narrowed his eyes, not enjoying the idea. “What do you think you know?”

“This looks like a…fantasy enactment. There’s felicitation, like iconography.”

“Satanist ritual,” Lecter said.

“Maybe…” Price knelt by the victim. “It’s some kind of religious vision. Don’t think it’s Satanic. Her body is like a visionary map of seduction.”

“A what?” Jack frowned.

“An attachment? When you connect physical lust to fantasies that are…frowned upon by society.”

“You learn that yourself?”

“No,” Price said honestly, “Will’s just been rubbing off on me. Really, he’d be more familiar with this type of case than I would. I’m better with fingerprints. Not profiling.”

It’s only been two days since the start of Graham’s sick leave and it was as though fate had purposely conjured this crime scene to taunt Crawford. The agent quickly became an enigma, refusing visitors and rarely answering his phone. If he didn’t live nearly 90 minutes away from the city, a courtesy visit would have crossed their minds, even Jack’s. There was a stomach bug going around, but it did not seem like an illness detrimental enough that could warrant Graham to become so isolated. Even Bloom seemed concerned at the man’s sudden distance.

“Keep looking. After, I want you at Will’s with the case file. Sick or not, we need him for this.” Jack turned away without waiting for a response, marching through the mud with an umbrella in hand. Hannibal noticed Price’s conflicted gaze as he watched the boss talk to local police. He stepped forward.

“Allow me to bring him the file, Jim. It‘s my understanding that you have a date tonight.”

The other man gave a tight smile, sheepish to accept the offer quickly, embarrassed to choose a romantic evening over finding this girl’s killer.

“I insist.”

Price shoved rain-wet hands into pockets. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

\- -

The doctor pulled into Will Graham’s driveway without calling beforehand. He did not want to risk him leaving if he was already home, nor him rushing to get home if he wasn’t. Recently home-cooked soup sat secure in his passenger seat, as well as the vanilla folder he used as his excuse for the visit. The rain fell much harder now, but Hannibal could still see the modest house and the lack of lighting inside. Common sense told him the man wasn’t home, instincts told him it was for insidious reasons.

Playing sick was a classically common way to deceive superiors, especially when it was a bathroom illness no one wanted particular proof of. Hannibal allowed the lie for now, his curiosity as to Will’s actions more interesting than what happened in that parking lot. The man led an interesting life to keep his mind in balance, but never before had he threatened suspicion by taking off lectures at the academy and abandoning cases.

He knocked on the door three separate times before breaking in. He slipped his wet shoes off, carefully, on a mat as three dogs came to greet, and an odd but familiar smell he didn’t expect also greeted him as he looked at the male’s living room. Nothing seemed out of place.

There was a shattered photo frame along a countertop, but it didn’t reveal anything useful. The living room was humble, and comfort was an obvious precedence for his home. Utterly opposite of Hannibal’s impressive and intimidating residence, Will’s oozed nothing but relaxation and middle class leisure. Soothing blue walls were decorated with art of beautiful countrysides and forests. There were bookshelves, lined with both fishing and informative crime books. There were plenty of cushioned chairs, a chaise, some pillows. Ratty dog toys laid in a pile near a few dog beds. Nothing confirmed or refuted Will’s supposed illness. Except, perhaps, his absence.

If he was well enough to drive, then surely he could spare a phone call before Crawford popped a blood vessel.

Knowing an alpha by instinct, Will’s dogs tentatively watched Hannibal as he snapped on latex gloves with a doctor's flourish, and walked further inside the home. With bowed heads, some pets followed. Hannibal sniffed the air, the odd rotting smell had invaded his senses stepping out of the car and now it was much stronger. Had Will killed someone and stuck their body under the floorboards? Although it was thrilling, he doubted the idea.

The man trekked deeper into the living room, looking down the darkened hallway and knew the smell came from the bathroom. It was a deep stench, like rotting meat, and Hannibal estimated the flesh or blood has been sitting out for two-three days. He opened the door and had to place a hand over his mouth and nose from the overpowering smell. Two trash bags were tied shut near the shower, but first Lecter crouched down to inspect the dried drops of blood on the wooden floor. Applying little pressure in the center of a drop caused it to rub off.

His gaze shifted to the cabinet. Inside, he scrutinized a white fabric locked within a plastic zip-lock bag. It looked filthy, as though it was evidence found at a crime scene. Will wouldn‘t steal evidence. But he never wore flimsy t-shirts that were much too big for his petite size either. The man had an awful sense of fashion, but it wasn’t _that_ terrible. Placing it back and closing the flap, Hannibal stepped on mats to reach the odorous trash bags. The dogs by the doorway whined and scattered away.

Opening just one and peering inside, Hannibal felt his reserve crack.

\- -

Will opened his front door, using newfound anger to ignore the constant ache and stand straight. He locked heated eyes with Hannibal before glancing down at what was dangling in his hands. Seeing the doctor’s car in his driveway made him a tad nervous, discovering his front door was broken into made him irate (was he losing _**all**_ security with personal space?), but recognizing the bloody gauze in Lecter’s hands made him furious. How could he just invade his privacy- Graham regarded Hannibal as a respectable man. As someone he could trust.

He slammed the door, disregarding the tenderness in his arm. “You broke into my house.”

Hannibal stood from his place on the couch and held up the red binding. Will's anger was ineffective, as evident from Hannibal's tall stance and unwavering stare.  “You have been injured.”

Hannibal Lecter was easily intimidating, standing around six feet with wide shoulders. He had dark, calculating eyes that Will always felt the uncomfortable scrutiny of. Perhaps the man’s attention to Will wasn’t an unusual courtship, but it was Lecter sensing his unease and trying to overcome it with dinner invites and pleasant conversation while working. But this wasn’t the Hannibal who was approachable and friendly. This was a betrayed and concerned doctor. Will knew he should have thrown out the bags and not just let the bandages build up. But could he really have accounted for a coworker to care enough as to raid his home?

Will crossed his arms, treading unknown territory by not backing down. Winston, Buster, and two smaller dogs stood by the kitchen doorway, letting out confused whimpers. “You broke into my house when I wasn’t here, Dr. Lecter. You went through my things-” Will couldn’t hold Hannibal’s resolute gaze, and instead scolded himself for being so careless. “I-…please. Just-…it’s nothing serious. I’ve been delirious lately with the flu and not getting enough sleep. I slipped yesterday on the stairs and gashed my leg. I finally felt okay enough to go to the hospital to…”

Lecter closed more distance between them, his patience visibly thinning. “Will. You are a talented liar, but nothing can excuse the amount of bandages I found. A gash to your leg would not warrant such bandaging nor would one wait an _entire_ day to seal the wound. I need you to explain this blood. If you lie again, I will take my evidence to Jack and clarify you are, in fact, not ill. Whatever secret you are sharing, you can share it with me.”

Will stared at him with wide eyes. “You broke into my house….and now you’re blackmailing me.”

“I’m concerned for your health, Will. What I can smell is enough to surprise me that you are still standing.” Hannibal cupped his chin, lifting his haggard face. Defeated eyes met sincere ones. “Everything I do, I do in your best interest.”

Graham evaded his gaze still, feverishly thinking for a way, any way out of the predicament. He couldn't think of one. “I was attacked.” He murmured. “That night. When you came to the classroom and offered to walk me to my car.”

“Attacked.”

“Hannibal, I need you to keep this quiet. I can’t have…anyone knowing or involved with this. I’m…handling it.”

The man dropped Will's chin, but placed the warm hand on his shoulder. He noticed the small wince. “You’ve been tracking the assailant because you wish to kill him.”

Pleading, he looked back up at Lecter.

“I will keep this between us, Will. But on one condition.”

There was something lurking in those words, something dark and promising. _Want to break into another coworkers place? Sell my soul? Tell you how I was raped and beat and-_

Will calmed his thoughts with closed eyes. Lecter was merciless when he wanted to be. He stood and waited for the verdict.

“Allow me to attend your wounds.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!:)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Semester is ending, so the next update may be a few days more than usual. :) Big thanks for reading!

 

 

Will was thankful for weather that complimented his mood.

The last sunny day took place on his bloody return to his home almost three days ago. Since, the skies have clouded and the rain rarely relented. Though his numerous layers confined his injuries and left little fresh air, Graham could scout the city without the worry to blend in. His scarf, hat, gloves, and bulky jacket hid his battered body and the umbrella concealed his face as he stalked locations marked in the Hammond file. He had found Andrew Hammond’s residence with little effort, pleased but surprised the man didn’t flee after his session with him. The man was arrogant, confident he wouldn’t be caught. Maybe he _was_ supposed to have died in that playhouse after all. Left to rot like the rest of the building. Like Timothy Hammond had did. Imagining Dr. Lecter’s disgust, Will grabbed the ends of his sleeves and recoiled.

The man was a friend, a caring coworker, he knew. But he had just experienced a frustrating and torturous amount of invasion and he did not enjoy the thought of more foreign hands poking at his hyper-sensitive skin. He especially did not want to see Hannibal’s stern face when he would dissect his butchered body and tell him he had done terrible repair work. No. The wounds would heal and scar, but it was a small price for him to pay if he wanted for this to remain a secret and kill the fucker himself. If Will didn’t let Lecter, both a doctor of the mind and body, to just make sure he wouldn’t die in his sleep, then the situation would stay a secret. Hannibal didn’t seem to have any qualms about his desire to kill the man who hurt him, so that was something. Hannibal was just alarmed. Hell, anyone would be if they found bags of bloody rags.

“Allow me to attend your wounds.” 

Nervous, weary, Will decided to relent. He didn't know what else to do, standing in his living room.

“May I ask what…attending wounds would consist of?”

“I used to make house calls in the past for some patients. I continue to keep the carrier in my car because I never know when it will be useful. I wish to look over the extent of injuries, Will. I need to make sure you are healing properly. Just one broken rib or punctured vessel would be life threatening.” He glanced down the man’s Wellingtons boots and his buttoned trench coat. “Let me give you proper medical attention and finish whatever… _that_ was in your restroom.”

“You won’t tell anyone?”

“Physician-patient privilege, Will. I am familiar with confidentiality and will never breech your trust.”

He frowned. “Except breaking and entering."

“I smelled blood, Will,” Hannibal gave a rueful smile, “Lots of it. I had probable cause.”

“Yeah. Okay. Um…so…how do you…?”

“Stay here. I will return with the necessary supplies. I will ask that you sit on your chaise, but if you think you may be bleeding still, I will gather some towels.” Lecter moved some strands of hair from Will’s eyes. Almost in a whisper, he asked, “Do you need towels?”

Hannibal could still smell the man. Still smell the attacker. It was nauseating. Will nodded.

“Very well. No, don’t move. I will get them. I don’t want you standing, to be honest. You are in my care now and until I know the condition of your attack, you will do very little. Understood?”

“Uh, sure. Yeah, I understand.”

 

Will sat along the side of his chaise with the help of small pillows propping his lower back placed by Dr. Lecter. Towels covered the furniture completely and Will watched as Hannibal set up his messenger bag filled with physician tools. His eyes focused on Hannibal’s rolling shoulders as he slipped his suit jacket off and rolled up his sleeves just above the elbow. He concentrated on the sound of latex snapping as Lecter slipped on gloves. Will tried to ignore the throbbing in his back, the immense pain along his buttocks. No matter how much medication he took, the damn pain reliever hardly relieved anything.

“I originally came here to give you information on the team’s current case. Many believe you will have more valuable insight in regards to the crime scene, myself included. But all of that can certainly wait.” The tall man placed one of Will’s kitchen chairs directly in front of him, close and intimate. “Right now, I need to know what the nature of this attack was. It will help me treat you accordingly.”

“I was…I think he drugged me in the parking lot. I can’t remember. I- I woke up tied. He just…hit me around. He hit me with something, some kind of whip I think. I was blindfolded.” He shifted in his seat, wincing. “He tortured me. I remember feeling a lot of pain just…everywhere.”

Hannibal wasn’t sure if Will was purposely vague or if his mind had blocked the entire ordeal from his conscious. If it was the latter, he had means of extracting suppressed information. “You were blindfolded, but do you have any clues as to where you were?”

“At…some old playhouse. It reached its prime in the '30s.”

“So we may be looking at some infections. The air quality in forsaken buildings is less than ideal for open wounds, especially if large amounts of dust and mold was disturbed. Do you have any persistent headaches? Are you on any medications?” Hannibal leaned towards him with a penlight and examined his eyes.

“I had one, yeah, for a while. But it’s gone. I’m on a few pain relievers. But that’s it. If I wanted stronger stuff, I’d have to go to a hospital.”

“Follow my finger.” Will did.

“I feel nauseated still. It comes and goes.”

“That’s natural considering your ordeal and what I assume is a sudden intake of pills to counteract the pain. May I remove your cap?”

Will nodded, unable to stifle a small grunt. Hannibal slightly stood to examine the agent's tussle of hair. He carefully prodded through the hair, finding two bruises and- he paused. There was a rather large lock of hair missing in the back. Not big enough for Will to notice, but obvious enough for any observers. “Good news. You do not have any head injuries. You have two unsightly contusions, but they will finish swelling and disappear in a few days. Has your breathing been normal? Any hitches or shortness of breath?”

“No. I mean, not unusually. Just when I’m trying to, ah, work through the pain.”

“Does it hurt to breathe deeply?”

“No.”

“Allow me to listen?” He gestured to the stethoscope he placed around his neck earlier. Will knew he would end up doing everything and anything Hannibal wanted, but he appreciated his asking for his approval first. Even if it was just a charade of control. Hannibal must understand his immense apprehension with personal boundaries. He smiled tentatively and nodded a go-ahead.

Gently, Hannibal placed the cool metal beneath his scarf and under the top of his shirt. He listened for a full minute before asking for him to take full, deep breaths. He did the same for his back and lower abdomen, all the while taking in Will’s small grunts of discomfort. When Hannibal decided he did not have collapsed, cracked, or bruised lungs, as well as an imperfect heartbeat (never mind that it was just a tad fast), he moved to his actual limbs.

Still clothed (…but eager to see the flesh underneath), the doctor slowly moved each arm and leg, wrist and ankle. He asked Will to turn his head in every direction, bend over and back. The movements were stiff and painful for him, but, again, signs for a recovery were promising. Nothing was torn, but some muscles were strained. Graham grimaced when Hannibal switched to simply pressing a hand against his forehead. Hannibal smiled. “You’re a little feverish.”

His eyes drifted off to an exposed ear from the removed rain hat. Along the lobe were teeth indents. He uncovered the other and found something similar. Bite marks. “Open your mouth, please.”

With a wooden stick against Will’s tongue, Hannibal studied the back of the throat and found it inflamed, irritated. No teeth were pulled nor did it look like his tongue was harmed. Will gagged when Hannibal slipped the stick down just a little further. He pulled it back in one swift gesture, sitting back in his chair. “Your esophagus is irritated.”

“Yeah, well….” Will looked down with a cough. “Screaming will do that, I guess.”

Hannibal allowed his face to drop. He had never heard Will scream, though he dreamed of it between appointments, and occasionally, before falling asleep. He allowed himself his fantasies, many involving Will shouting or, in some way, bleeding from his work. It was always his doing. The most recent of these fantasies consisted of the young man nailed to a cross, naked, as he watched Lecter masturbate. Very Freudian.

But the idea of Will screaming from some unnamed man irked him greatly. He could hear it in his mind, a scream desperately calling for someone, anyone, in the dark. But Hannibal was not there. He had underestimated Will’s safety that night. He caused an incident and had no means of enjoying it other than watching the aftermath unfold. Will was his and his alone. A possession more rare and unique than any in his collection. The man he would have, possess, and own. Who would sit across his dining table every night. Graham would never be far away from him again. Like a hungry vulture, Hannibal will keep a close eye on the brunet. Lesson learned.

Lecter placed a gentle finger against the corners of Will’s lips. They looked slightly burned, reddened. The shorter man leaned back and rubbed his mouth himself. Hannibal didn’t have to ask. “I’m going to remove your scarf next, Will.” He cocked his head. “Is this alright?”

“I don’t know why you keep asking…”

Tenderly, Hannibal unwrapped the fabric and placed it along the chaise, then gingerly discarded the bandages. His touch was light, almost casual, easing Will’s stress. Like Abigail, Will used the scarf to hide an unpleasant sight. But unlike Abigail, his neck was littered with hickies and bruises. There were plenty of deep bite marks. The lewd man had chewed on him like he was a treat. He crept closer to Will’s neck, inspecting but also relishing the brilliant scent of him. Will had done without scented soaps for a while it seemed, probably as to not aggravate his skin any further. He smelled of sweat and faint aftershave, fresh blood and wet hair.

Hannibal cleaned the wounds with his own nimble fingers, applying a medicated cream before placing more secure bindings along his skin. Will had closed his eyes at the cooling sensation, basking in the brief relief. “The removal of your coat and shirt is necessary now, Will.” Hannibal glanced at him.

“Okay.”

The doctor watched Will's shaking hands begin to undo the numerous buttons on his jacket. Stumbling halfway down, he gave up, frustrated. “Sorry. My-my muscles and hands have been shaking a lot.”

Hannibal slipped off the outerwear for him and helped with his t-shirt. He continued his relaxed attention as to not alarm Will, but the damage truly did get worse as Hannibal continued.

When Hannibal's movements paused for just a moment, Will knew he was staring at the marks on his body. His horrible patchwork. Hannibal slowly peeled away the bindings covered with antibiotic creams, revealing more bruises on his collarbones and circling his nipples. The skin was crimson along his stomach. Whip markings covered his flesh. His arms appeared untouched, but Hannibal took his time unwrapping his wrists of gauze, cleaning, then rewrapping with expert care. He had been restrained, that was certain. And fought against them with enthusiasm. He also re-bandaged his nail-less finger.

Attending to his stomach and chest took much more time. He counted eight markings of teeth so far. Will had not mentioned being raped, but the possibility seemed more and more likely with every bandage he applied. Killers rarely raped male victims. Will was special. “I also…um, have whip marks on my back and, uh, butt and thighs. It‘s been difficult…reaching those places.”

“I will give attention to your front first, unless the pain is immediate.”

“No, it’s throbbing as just much as the rest of me. But your cream feels good. It tingles.”

“It should relieve some of the pain and help each puncture of skin heal faster. And whatever the ointment fails to relieve, the pills I will give you are, in fact, the strong stuff.”

Will smiled with his teeth. “That’s great.”

Hannibal, however, did not return the smile. Instead he continued to study the skin and cleanse any particularly deep slashes with his usual stoic expression. The doctor was upset with him for keeping this all a secret, Will knew. Hannibal was disgusted with his amateur job of playing doctor. Maybe he even felt inconvenienced to help him, his moral code practically forcing him to do the right thing and waste an entire afternoon.

“I need you lay down, please. I’m going to tighten some bandages and check your abdomen for abnormalities. Besides the flesh wounds.”

Will slowly leaned backwards until his entire tender back rested against the towels. He felt exposed like this, as the memories came back, and purposely moved his hands to remind him he was indeed free and doing this per his choice. Will gasped when he felt warm hands press against his lower stomach, against the top of his jeans. Will switched between watching Lecter’s face and his dexterous hands. He may be a difficult read, but Will could try reading him for hours. His looks were exotic when they weren’t intimidating and placed on him.

“I’m going to remove your pants and shoes, now. No, no need to sit up. Continue to lay against the cushions.”

Still frantic and nervous, Will blushed wildly when feeling a hand pull the zipper down and gently tug his jeans. He held his boxers against his hips, praying they would stay. He understood Lecter wanted to be thorough, but this was becoming uncomfortable. _He will stop if I ask him to. He won’t do anything if I really don’t want him to. Knock it off_ , Will told himself. _Calm down_.

When Hannibal looked at his pale legs after placing the restricting jeans to his side, he fixed his eyes on a spasm. Even as he discarded old rags, it continued. He watched Will’s body continue to tense, flex, twist; trying to work out the sore kinks to no avail. He pressed a gloved hand to the violent muscle and rubbed two fingers to quiet it down. His eyelids fluttered when he felt blood pulse underneath his fingertips. He began to regret his use of gloves. The blood gradually slowed under his touch. He looked at Will: the permanent grimace had left his face, replaced with a much more peaceful expression. He continued to work the man’s wrecked muscles until a low hum of appreciation came from Will's throat. Hannibal paused.

“You pulled and strained your muscles when fighting against the crude restraints. Does this feel good?”

It felt as though all the anguish and tension began to dissolve in Will’s body. Once tight muscles became fluid clouds. He had trouble standing before from the pain. Now he’d have trouble standing from feeling like jelly. “Hmm…yes.”

Hannibal continued, kneading slowly through the layers of tense tissue. He pressed against Will’s bare skin, massaging the inflamed flesh with a quiet firmness. Will continued to softly moan his approval, his face in bliss. Lecter rubbed slow circles. Watching Graham squirm below him was mesmerizing as he felt his delicate, pale flesh with every squeeze and gentle prod. He laid before him in just thin boxers, eyes closed with pleasure.

As Hannibal worked, he noticed the bruises peeking from his undergarment, surrounding his hipbones. There were also dark discolorations along the insides of his thighs. Hannibal stopped his ministrations at the sight of something small along an outer thigh. “There is a small needle puncture here,” he gestured under a curious gaze before flicking his eyes at Will’s brown ones.

Will glared, staring at the ceiling. “There…are injuries I can’t account for. It’s a possibility he...continued his fun without me.”

“I see.” When he finished, Hannibal asked Will to turn around and lay on his stomach. Grateful for a less displayed position, the agent did so without any hesitation outside of pain. Will rested his head against the cushion and suddenly fought against the urge to sleep. He couldn’t recall his last restful night, but he wasn’t going to do it in Hannibal’s presence.

But as Hannibal attended to his beaten and whipped back, as he carefully massaged and applied the cooling gel to his reddened thighs, Will felt his eyelids grow heavy and his lips part. Even as Hannibal tugged down the back of his boxers to aid there, he was too tired to even feel embarrassment or regret. The man had a wonderful touch with the most soothing hands. They checked his spine, trailing from his tailbone up, leaving goosebumps, until fingers reached the back of his head. They almost tickled, Will thought. His fingers began to feel playful along his back. Almost sensual. But before Will could ask about it, Hannibal began to give the torn skin around his ankles attention.

“Your father was a repairman, wasn’t he?” He asked conversationally.

“Hm, yes,” he tried to blink himself awake. “At shipyards.”

“Honorable profession. So few are actually good with their hands these days. I recall your wish to take up the tinkering hobby when you quit the academy. _Shh_..” Will’s foot jerked when he reached for it. His soles were cut in some areas. “I would hope you take on the pastime somewhere local so we could continue our friendship. I’m afraid I won’t be able to justify taking vacation days just to make sure you’re well fed.”

The other male wanted to say something, anything, but he wasn’t sure what. No words came to mind.

“I need you turn back around now, Will.”

Slowly, he did. Hannibal stared at him with a strange gaze. “I have to remove your boxers now.”

WIll blanched. “What?”

“There are whip lacerations there as well. And I need you check-”

“But he didn’t _do_ anything there! Dr. Lecter, I’m fine now. You don’t need to do anything. I already covered there.”

Hannibal sat back in his chair. “I had purposely started slow, Will. I let you grow accustomed to my touch, let you trust me with your injuries. You told me you were unconscious in this man’s presence. It is very likely he had assaulted you here and you do not remember.”

_Oh, I do_. Will grabbed at the underwear, still nervous and unsure. “Okay, say he did? I, you know...showered. I cleaned down there. I took pills. I’m…I’m okay.”

“There may be internal scarring, something you missed in the mirror. I need to check and make sure everything is normal. Operating well. I understand we know each other better as friends than in a patient and doctor affiliation, but I promise our friendship will not change.”

“No. You’re just going to look at my ass.”

“I don’t want to do this against your consent, Will. But I am gravely concerned for your safety and well being. With the proper tools and a better trained eye, I can help you better than a shower and cheap gauze. You wish to kill this man but you will not be able to do that if you die from your injuries. I have only improved your condition so far, haven’t I?”

Will faltered.

“Then allow me to continue. You may stop me if you feel any pain.”

Will, uncertain, took his hands away from the edge of his boxers, knowing what was coming but wanting to forget. To just sink into the chaise and disappear. “Okay,” he whispered.

“I need your help. Can you come to the edge and dangle your legs off the cushion?”

“Y-yeah.” His face was a ablaze with a red blush.

“Very good. You’re doing well.”

When the doctor was in position, Hannibal hooked his gloves hands around the waistband and pulled the thin fabric down-

“I’m going to kill him.” Will spoke firmly as Hannibal looked down at the carving. “I’m going to kill him for doing this to me.”

Lecter snapped out of his surprise and continued to gently pull the material down and placed them with his other clothes. “Your assailant was the Chesapeake Ripper.” He scrutinized the shallow cuts. They were made by a common hunting knife. The lines were jagged. Will was conscious as the man made the cuts. Will was conscious for everything that happened to him.

“No.”

“No?”

“…doing something like this isn’t the Ripper’s MO. Even if I am…an outlier, he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t just take me and do this.”

“It seems as though the killer has a fascination with you, Will. Is it entirely improbable to think the Ripper would abduct and sexually assault you?”

“There was no sexual-” Hannibal quirked a brow. “…It wasn’t the Ripper,” he sighed, “He is theatrical, yes, but he…he doesn’t abduct those who mean something to him. He kills pigs. He does so with elegance. Grace. He only mutilates the bodies to hide the cannibalism. He wouldn’t…do this to me. This mark, this branding is a message to the Ripper. Some…madman wanted to get revenge because the Ripper killed his son.”

“You’re sure of this?”

“He strung me up like Timothy Hammond, Dr. Lecter. He said nothing to me the entire time. Nothing he did matches the Ripper. ”

Hannibal gently traced the **R** , knowing the mark will never quite heal. An odd twinge coiled deep within his core. He silently applied gel to each letter.

“I’m going to perform a standard exam. It will cover both exterior and interior regions, as well as the rectum. If you feel any physical discomfort, you must let me know.”

Will laid his head on the cushion and choose to examine his ceiling once more as Lecter positioned himself examine his intimate parts. “Sure.”

His entire body felt substantially better thanks to the man’s magical hands and gentle binding of his abrasions. Although he did basically the same thing for the last three days, Hannibal actually knew what he was doing. And, what was probably the biggest difference, was the fact Hannibal had the good stuff; powerful medications from top notch hospitals. Will could only imagine what kind of pain reliever pills he would give him.

Hannibal inspected Will’s flaccid length. Although it was irritated by some whip slashes, it appeared to be okay. The same diagnosis for the testicles as well. Will’s opening, however, was anything but. It was obviously abused and slightly torn. It looked as though large objects were forced inside. “I’m going to insert a finger, Will. I will rotate it inside so I can feel the internal walls and check muscle. I need to feel if your organs have changed in size or shape.”

“Wha- what if it hurts?”

“I’m applying lubrication,” Hannibal announced as he did just so with a surgical bottle. “But if you still feel any pain, tell me and I will stop. Take deep breaths. The chance of pain will drastically lessen if you relax.”

“R-right. Yeah.” His response was both sarcastic and genuine. Will wanted to be helpful and get the treatment he obviously needed, but didn’t Lecter understand his anxiety of this situation? He laid there, spread out like a buffet for a man he never imagined, someone he trusted implicitly. Hannibal's intelligence and reserve comforted Will; he could suggest a nice dip into an active volcano for his wounds and he would consider it. But the pressure down there and the looming man made his heart race and his muscles began to seize- …but no pain came.

Lecter’s touch was gentle, soft. Hardly there. “How are you doing, Will?”

“O…Okay,” he breathed. The finger was coated with lubrication as he felt the sides, top, muscle tone. His other hand rested on Will’s thigh as quiet encouragement, warm reassurance. The agent took deep breaths as he prodded, feeling every tear.

“You’re doing well, Will. Soon done.”

Will closed his eyes. The finger felt like a dull pulse compared to whatever the aggressor did down there. Really, Will tried to focus on anything but this examination as Lecter touched him, but his thoughts kept trailing back to those skilled hands. As a past surgeon and talented cook, it surprised him to feel how soft Hannibal's fingers through the latex were. He lost himself in a daydream, wondering what the man must be like in the bedroom. Foreplay was probably a large component. It would be for Will. He chided himself for the vulgar thought, embarrassed. The doctor was checking for tears inside his ass and he was thinking of sex.

Lecter pulled out and wiped the leftover gel into a tissue. He had been quick and efficient, like he promised. Will looked at him.

“The area is tender and inflamed. The medication I will give you should help, but I must recommend utmost caution. No douching of any kind. No sexual activity for at least three weeks, possibly more. You have a small tear along the rectal opening, but it is small enough to heal on its own. I advise to just leave the area alone. Bowel movements will be a bit painful. Have you been bleeding there since the incident?” _The incident._

“Just spotting.”

Hannibal considered the answer. “That’s good. Spotting is normal. Anything more and I want you to contact me. Your assailant was especially brutal in that area.” There was venom in his words.

WIll sputtered, embarrassed. “But there wasn‘t…”

“You said you were unconscious at times, during your abduction. Male rape is uncommon, but it does happen, Will. You may sit up.” But as the agent began to reach for his clothes, Hannibal shook his head. “I’m sorry, but wearing those layers will disturb your bandages. I have to insist on lighter, airier fabrics.”

“And what else do you suggest?” It wasn’t bitter or harsh. Will looked at him with serious, curious eyes.

“Ice for your head. Minimal activity, lots of bed rest. Stretch when able. Change your bandages twice a day, morning and early evening. You need to take your time during this process,” he explained, “and apply this ointment.”

Will took the bottle, eyeing the foreign language as his friend continued.

“The… _marking_ on your pelvic region will never go away, I’m afraid. But if you attend to it as you will the others, it should at least fade with time.”

“How much time?”

Hannibal stared at the brand before answering. “Months. Possibly years. Even with your healthy hide.”

“Great.”

Hannibal sat along the chaise with Will, watching as his thoughts meshed and swirled around his head. Will noticed his gaze and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. He sat there, unsure and numb. Hannibal leaned in, slowly raising a hand to not startle. He placed it against the back of Will's bruised skull and pushed lightly. Will went with it, finding himself resting against the doctor’s dress shirt. Expensive cologne and something earthy, musky consumed his scenes. The other hand wrapped against his bandaged back. Will let out a single sob.

“He put the mark on me….thinking the Ripper would see it. He believed Lounds's article. He did what he did because he thinks the Ripper and I have some kind of…relationship.”

“He is wrong.”

“He’s crazy.” Will corrected. “He’s still living at his house like nothing happened. He’s going to work. Saying hi to neighbors.”

“You’ve been following him.”

“Yes.”

Hannibal didn’t have to clarify whether or not Will seriously considered killing the man. He couldn’t blame the desire. He wanted to kill him himself. But he knew the importance of allowing his agent this. It was his healing process. Critical to a recovery. His version of a revival. “I believe you need company, Will. You cannot stay at your house alone with your injuries if there is a possibility of another attack.”

Hannibal wanted nothing more than to cleanse him from within. To replace the assailant. But those things took time. He will have to take it slow.

“He’s not going to attack me again. He got his revenge.”

“Perhaps. But I still feel an obligation, being the only one who knows of this. I don’t want to make the same mistake when I did not insist on walking you to your car.”

“Hannibal, you couldn’t have known. This isn’t your fault.”

“I insist to make you dinner, at the very least. Something tells me you have not been eating properly lately. As usual.”

After a few quiet moments, Will quietly nodded his consent. 

\- -

After helping Will into a loose shirt and lounge pants, Hannibal warmed the home-cooked soup he had brought on Will's stove. Will watched from his table with a pillow resting between his sore ass and the wooden chair. With continued fascination, Will’s eyes followed Hannibal’s hand as it stirred the broth with an old wooden spoon. It was amazing. Lecter really was a magnificent doctor; it wasn’t just exaggerations or brown-nosing compliments he had heard. The man did almost nothing different than how WIll treated his body, and yet it seemed Lecter’s touch solely healed him. Perhaps the strange bottle of cream that was across seas had something to do with it. The man generously gave Will the entire tube, as well as a small medication bottle filled with strong pain relievers one couldn’t find a drugstore. _The good stuff_.

“What…kind of valuable insight could I have to the case?” He glanced at the file Hannibal brought along with his soup.

“The same valuable insight you are gifted with.” Hannibal poured the pot’s contents into two bowls. “Jim believes you have seen a killer like this before. So much so, in fact, that Jack wants a profile even if you have requested an absence.”

“Hm.” His mouth watered as the soup’s aroma filled the quaint kitchen. Hannibal was right yet again; he hadn’t eaten anything besides an occasional granola bar or glass of water. “Would you like any help?”

But Hannibal declined his offer, insisting that he stay seated and comfortable. “For the record, this certainly does not count towards the dinner I had originally invited you to attend. This is a social call, at best.”

Will gave a small smile. “Social call. Right.”

Hannibal scouted around the kitchen, finding utensils with a sideways glance towards the table. “Would you like to add to your appointments, Will? I understand if one session a week wouldn’t be enough to time to overcome what you are feeling in regards to recent events.”

“No…no, that’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it. So one conversation a week should do just fine.”

Hannibal nodded, respecting the man’s desire to be left alone. He didn’t want to push. For now. Will has to learn to trust him.

As they ate, Lecter offered to stay the night and keep him company, showing obvious concern. Will refused, but promised to call him by dawn and if any time was ever a problem: mentally or physically. A brutal torture is a difficult thing to overcome, Will acknowledged. It was life changing. Will expected an infuriating recovery. Hannibal advised Will to at least arm himself. Will didn't have the heart, the energy, that he had been for days. 

\- - 

Will Graham watched Hannibal leave from the porch with Buster drooling at his side. He thanked his friend, both for his concern and not telling Jack.

When the headlights traveled far enough into the darkness and rain that they disappeared, Will stepped back inside. He slipped the backpack out from under the couch with a wrapped foot, still amazed by the fluidity of his limbs, and triple-checked its contents. Although he craved company that wasn’t a dog, he had to refuse Hannibal’s proposal.

Tonight was the night.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many warnings apply here, some newer ones involve violence and non-con touching/fondling.

 

 

Will Graham’s eyes were black.

Like a panther ready to pounce, he closed the window slowly, wearing gloves, and eyed the dark room behind him. The rain outside worked in his favor as it was loud enough to mask any missteps. He was in a bedroom, but it was not used for its intended purpose. Like a trite crime movie, the walls were covered with newspaper clippings. Even more littered the single bed and a pile laid on the desk. He carefully placed his bag on the mattress, looking at the closest articles.

_The Southside Killer with a body count of now twelve…_

_The Southside Rapist is believed to be connected with a string of crimes that are located in what locals call the south side of lower Sliver country…._

_...Believed to be early to late twenties, in a position of authority, over one- hundred-fifty pounds…_

Will wasn’t surprised to discover Andrew Hammond was the Southside Killer. Although he despised the memories, what the man did to him fit the killer’s MO, except letting him live. He assumed it was an accident. For many serial killers, the fantasy was in the torture or _process_ of killing; not the actual death. There were many cases where the man would beat and rape his victim and unknowingly leave them alive well enough to contact authorities. The opposite was true for Will. His fantasy wasn’t the torture, although it would be the highlight. His vision was the death; the light going out, the dimming pulse.

Harsh whispers were heard somewhere down the darkened hallway. His steps were precise. He couldn’t remember a time where he was more alert and in tune with his body. The good kind of adrenaline coursed through it, making his movements sharp and focused. Stopping at the foot of the hall, Will stood in the archway like a demon. He fixed his dark eyes on the man in the recliner.

Andrew Hammond crouched over the footstool, crying over a photo of Tim when he was Timmy, eight years old and grasping his bike’s handles like they were trophies. Eyes blurry, he reached out to grab another photo from the boxes that surrounded his chair. His truck was loaded with luggage, keys were warm in his pants pocket. But before he would leave, he had to say goodbye just one more time. A creak in a floorboard made Hammond blubber even more.

“I…I knew you’d come. Eventually. I’ve been waiting for you.” He stroked little Timmy’s blissful face. “Did you like the video?”

Will wordlessly moved around Andrew, standing before him, clad in black and bottled anger.

“I thought I killed you.”

The man was pathetic, defeated. But it didn’t stop Will from remembering this was same man who felt the texture of his blood and caused his psyche to shatter. He pulled out a needle and Hammond could only continue to stare at his walking corpse as Will injected him with a mild sedative. He stole it from Lecter’s carrier. Careful with the dosage, he worked fast knowing there was now a time limit before he would wake back up and probably struggle.

Will listened to a deep breath slowly leave Andrew’s lungs and waited for his muscles to truly go slack and limp. Killing someone was one of the most awful feelings in the entire world. Will had said that once. But that was before someone had tied him up and had their fun. He felt nothing when he pushed the wide body off the chair and it fell with a loud thud. Will waited a full minute, staring at his wrist watch, to ensure the man was genuinely out. Lecter probably had noticed a missing syringe, and it surprised Will when he said nothing leaving his house earlier. It didn’t take an FBI profiler to know who had tortured Will. Timothy Hammond only had so many father’s. Did Hannibal want him to kill Andrew Hammond? Was he just turning the other cheek, understanding this would be the only way Will could go on living and cope?

Dr. Hannibal Lecter did encourage unorthodox practices.

When sixty seconds passed, Will grabbed the legs and dragged the unconscious man out of the room.

 

Andrew woke up sweating and tried to scream, but his mouth was clogged with a sock and gagged with a tight necktie. He was sitting on newspapers in his old son’s room, the lights off and the heat unbearable. Maybe that was just his own panicking body. His wrists were tied behind his back with bindings. His legs were not. But he did not want to stand. He looked down, ready to pass out again before a hand grabbed his hair and forced him to look up.

“Don’t pass out again, Andrew.” The voice was even, a bit low. “We’re not done yet.”

He was naked from the waist down, nailed to floorboards. Tears streamed like rivers down his cheeks, snot from his nose.

“You need to be present for this, Andrew. I’m going to show you everything in my bag, okay? Everything I show you, I will use on you before I let you die.” Will lifted tools in front of his face. “A hammer, baton, a match. Here, a knife. _Your_ knife, Andrew. This is your knife. But this will be my design.”

The man screamed through his gag when he was conscious. When the pain was too unbearable, his body shut down. Will was silent as he worked, listening to the man choke on his sock and slapping him when he went slack. He occasionally eyed the darkest corner of the room, knowing the Stag Man was there. He kept silent as well, watching. The only time he signaled Will was a quick nod near the end, giving his go ahead to gut Andrew Hammond. Will’s mind was numb. He stared into Andrew’s eyes when the light began to fade. The chest spasmed. Blood continued to spurt from the various cuts and gashes. Hammond was finished. Will was done.

He replaced his stained gloves with new ones before cleaning up. He chopped up the body into pieces and placed them in trash bags. He disposed of the stained newspaper and collected the plastic lining underneath. He cleansed the area of any traces of his presence. It was over. Maybe now his mind would allow him sleep.

**\- - -**

Rain continued to fall.

A biting breeze nipped at Hannibal’s nose and swept up his suit’s jacket. The rain wasn’t heavy, but it had yet to end for almost twenty hours. He parked the Bentley a few yards away, hidden behind overgrown bushes and the night’s shadows. Wearing a thick coat, he neglected an umbrella and meandered down a path rarely traveled. In the dimming glow of the only street light behind him, Hannibal could make out the building’s forbearing outline. Growing closer with rain-matted hair, he could see the brick exterior, lined with old granite accents and terra cotta. This was one of the oldest concert halls along the east coast, an old engraved stone marking its age in the early 1900’s. He regarded the high-rise. Although it looked ready to topple, Hannibal felt it worth the risk. Little wasn’t these days.

Inside the once-grand lobby, the tall man slipped out a flashlight and scanned the rubbish. Finding nothing, he walked through a doorway with no doors. This was the playhouse Will mentioned earlier. It was the only abandoned theater within eight-hundred miles that the man could have gone to within the time frame he had been abducted. The ornate plaster of the ceiling had long ago began to peel and rot. Original decorative metal work lined the aged walls, making the entire foyer stand about 14 floors in height. Walking down the declining aisle, Lecter shined his light through the dusty air and onto red-cushioned chairs. He estimated the theatre could hold four-thousand. It was easy to tell it used to be magnificent, tickets for matinee likely in the $250 range for the atmosphere alone.

Along the decrepit rug, Hannibal could see a faint disturbance in the dust. There were staggered steps. There was also a smell of that familiar metallic. Will. His weight made the wooden steps creak as Lecter made his way on the stage. There was no evidence of restraints or whips. The entire platform was decayed and molding, except for the very middle. Blood looked to be recently, but poorly, rubbed away. He scrutinized the area from a distance, weary of the attacker now. If he had come back to the crime scene to clean up and relive the memory, he may still be present. Hannibal’s light reflected something in the circle of dried blood. He glanced above, eyeing the empty rafters, before walking towards the object.

He squatted down in his damp suit and used a handkerchief to examine the small plastic bag. It contained a thumb drive. There was a small, folded piece of paper attached the bag, typed.

_**Dear Ripper, I Know You Follow Him. I Hope You Take Pleasure In My Gift. What A Collection Of Scars Your Agent Has. He Will Never Forget Who Gave Him The Best Of Them.** _

\- - -

“Are you bored with me, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal sat across from Franklyn Froideveaux in his office, pen in hand, paper on his lap. “You are placing too much focus on your therapist, Franklyn, and not enough on your therapy.”

“I’d like us to be friends,” he said. “I think we have a lot in common. I noticed you don’t wear a wedding ring. Well, neither do I. We don’t have to be alone, Dr. Lecter. We can go to opera’s together. We could have a companionship. I want a companionship with you.”

“Being alone comes with a dull but persisting ache for you, Franklyn. This is why you’re here. You told me this during your first session with me. We are trying to overcome your fear of solitude so you can be comfortable in your skin.”

“Yeah, and once I’m comfortable, _then_ I’ll get friends.”

Hannibal nodded, ignoring the other male’s exasperation. “That is what both of us agreed on. That is what I’m helping you with. But I cannot do that if you try to detract our path.”

“I just want a friend,” He sniffed. “Tobias doesn’t return my feelings. You made me realize that. But now I have no one. I don’t know what to do.”

Hannibal rarely encountered an unproductive session with a patient. For the remaining forty minutes of his appointment with Froideveaux, the doctor mindlessly sketched in his journal. He purposely looked at Franklyn more than the paper, carrying the charade of diligent, note-taking psychiatrist. Thankfully the other male never questioned his moving hand.

The second his clock signaled six, Lecter walked with Franklyn to the door and quickly scanned his empty waiting room before shutting himself in the office. With a steady pace, he headed toward the desk and pulled out the sleek tablet from a top drawer. Cautious, he slipped on one latex glove and pulled out the small plastic bag as well. He thumbed the flash-drive. The only file on the device was a video file tactlessly entitled _The Rape of Will_. Hannibal grimaced.

It looked to be high-quality, high-resolution. It nearly filled the entire thumb drive. He double-clicked on the icon, launched the player. It immediately began.

A man Hannibal recognized appeared on the screen. It was close to his face, the background completely black. The man was holding the recording device himself. His blond hair was tussled and a greasy sweat lined his brow. His fingers played with a strand of brown hair.

“Hello, Ripper.” It was Andrew Hammond. The forty-five year old state policeman who was insistent with Crawford on helping to solve the Chesapeake Ripper case ever since his son became the latest victim. But this wasn’t the same man Hannibal was accustomed to seeing. His eyes were crazy. His lips curled like a beast. “I became acquainted with Will. It’s too bad for I don’t know _your_ kin, but I caught the next best thing. And the night we spent together was perfect. I apologize for killing him, but if he _was_ still alive, he probably wouldn‘t have liked any future sexual…encounters. I don’t think he’d ever be able to get me out of his head. Oh, I do enjoy thinking about Will waking up on that stage, bleeding and near death with my semen inside him. It’s thrilling. Do you think he‘d ever recover from something like that? If he lived, do you think he‘d be haunted by the dark until he died?” He laughed a little, smiling wildly. “I fucked him. I fucked him. I tore him up from the inside because you violated my boy. You opened him up and looked inside. So I opened up sweet Will and took something for myself too. No one can touch him, huh? Well, I made sure to touch every fucking part of him. Inside and out. His screams were earth-shattering. Did he ever scream for you? He did for me. Like the finest wine…” Another burst of laughter. “He moaned too. A whore that should be shared with the world and not trapped with you. That’s a waste. You can’t just hide him for yourself. Ha…he was so fucking tight.”

“This is a special occasion, Ripper. A one time showing called…an eye for an eye. Trite, but sensible. I hope you enjoy my homemade movie.”

The clip suddenly cut and transitioned to a new scene. Will was nude except for a baggy t-shirt, tied by his limbs and forced into a star on the stage. A light shined on him, surrounding him with darkness. The camera was stationary, sitting somewhere along the dusty seats, focused on the awakening agent. The blindfold and gag made it hard to gauge his expression, but his sudden thrashes against the rope told Hannibal everything. A shadow edged the video’s corner, then it leaned down to smile into the lens. Hammond walked passed the recorder and down the aisle, approaching the man. Hammond stood near the other, his eyes fixed on Will. He seemed mesmerized as Will struggled in his bonds. Hammond glanced at the camera once more before closing the distance.

A montage commenced.

Scenes of Will’s torture and rape. His gagged screams. Pooling blood. A branding. He cut Will slowly, he touched him everywhere. Parts he touched Will while he was conscious and grunting, other times he was lifeless and asleep. Clips shifted between getting whipped to raped and then back to whipping again.

_“Are you going to be a good boy for me?”_

_“I can play your boyfriend like a piano, Ripper.”_

Andrew was exultant during the entire process, hard in his pants or between Will’s legs. He did a rain dance, and the dance was blood. Hannibal watched, staring as Will whimpered through the gag. It was slow and unpleasant. He was spared no dignity. The man strived for dissonance from Will’s unconscious beauty and Hammond’s vulgar work. He wanted to break Will’s serenity. To destroy something exquisite. To ruin him for the Ripper.

“Speak up some, Will. Agent. Let us know you’re with us, come on.”

The camera angle had suddenly cut to a much more closer view of Will. Hammond held the recorder, zooming in on his fresh wounds and blood. Will was restrained on the stained floor now, not gagged but still blindfolded. Brown hair sprayed out around him. He kept slowly shaking his head. Hannibal watched as Hammond pulled the empty needle from Will’s thigh. He squirmed on the floor, his body making a gruesome blood angel. He was drugged.

“I…don’t…under-”

Hammond slapped him hard enough to draw blood. “Maybe you love him, Ripper. As much as a psychopath can.” Laughter. “See? William? You see what happens when you love a psychopath?”

Will opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Hammond laughed even more.

Another montage, shorter than the last but just as brutal. Will was drugged this round, not understanding or remembering.

When the video finished, Hannibal continued to stare at the blank screen. His eyes were like glass, fragile and glossy. They mourned the pain of a person Hannibal felt the deepest affection for. He did not attend to his eyes- he was not ashamed. The emotion made sense.

He was silent for a few moments before replaying the video. Something billowed deep within him, something that was birthed when he first noticed the bite mark on Will’s ear. He wanted it to grow. He needed it hungry.

\- - -

Will never slept.

Instead, he laid awake that night and for much of the morning. He had sent Lecter a text rather than call; he didn’t want the doctor to hear his voice. Besides the unhealthy rasp, Will also could not trust his own tongue. It was hard enough trusting his eyes. Was it guilt that made Will see Andrew Hammond, gutted with a hollowed out eye by the foot of his bed? The monster encountered the punishment he deserved. Over the years, Hammond had killed well over forty young women and men. Much longer than the average serial killer. He was good, only growing sloppy once his own son was a victim of a killer. Will had avenged the Southside’s victims as well as himself. It was fitting for his only survivor to finally put an end to the madness. It wasn’t the guilt of killing Hammond. Maybe it was the way it was done.

It was chilling how easily Will became so able, so deadly when taking someone’s life. It wasn’t him in that bedroom. It felt like Will became Andrew instead, his mind flooding with the killer’s motives of revenge and settling of scores. How difficult would it be to take on another killer’s perspective then? Will feared it was like the most powerful drug; you start to do it too much, and soon you won’t be able to stop. That he would soon have crazy, murderous thoughts when grocery shopping.

Will Graham laid on his chaise, not quite remembering how he got there but not quite caring either. A few dogs rested by his feet. He was wide awake, staring the ceiling. Although it would have been nice to find a change of fresh, non-sweaty clothes, Will was not eager for another meeting with Hammond. He knew the ghost was still in his room.

After another hour, Will let his dogs out through the back yard. He watched as they ran into the fields, trotting and kicking old leaves. He eventually made his way to the hallway, discarding his clothes in the dryer before walking to the bathroom. He grabbed the tube of antibiotic, a few rolls of gauze, and started a hot shower. The calming endeavor did not last long.

Will turned the faucet off when he found Hobbs in his mirror. He cursed under his breath, grabbing the supplies and headed for the doorway. Hammond stood there, however, blocking his exit.

“-Christ!”

The materials clattered on the floor. Behind him, the shower curtain ruffled. A darkened creature emerged, revealing great antlers and empty eyes, and it reached for Will.

\- - -

Hannibal Lecter sat askew behind his desk, tablet held hidden on his lap as he watched the video.

A sudden crack in the air made the man look up at his office door. He paused the video, placed the instrument in a drawer, and stood in one fluid motion. Seconds later, a disheveled Will Graham burst through his door. “It’s the Ripper.”

An eyebrow arched elegantly in response. “Good evening, Will.”

“He’s behind everything,” the agent paced further into the office, hands frantic. Hannibal smelled his anxiety with subtle inhales. “He manipulated Hammond into abducting me. Everything that’s been happening, it’s been orchestrated by him-”

“Will, you need to calm down.”

“-He wanted Hammond to take me. He wanted me to kill him. And now I’ve been seeing him everywhere. Him and Hobbs. And others.”

Hannibal approached Will with a steady gaze. The man was near hysterics. “You killed Andrew Hammond, your attacker?”

“Yes.” “When?”

“Recently.” Will stood still, trembling and picking at his fingers.

“How recently, Will?”

“I-I thought I could start sleeping after I did it. But I can’t. And now I’m seeing,” he scoffed, “I’m seeing _dead people_ , Dr. Lecter. I came here…with _three_ extra passengers. I’m hallucinating. I’m…scared. I killed him. I don’t regret that. But I tortured him for using me. I don’t want to be alone with my head. I’m scared I might do it again.”

Lecter placed a strong hand on his shoulder, leaning a bit to find Will’s eyes. “You empathize completely with the killers and you are concerned of losing yourself to them. That you won’t be able to escape. You are grieving, Will. Not for the lives you have taken, but for the life that was taken from you. You have been through a horrible ordeal. Your mind is trying to cope.”

The shorter man’s face scrunched together. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, Dr. Lecter.”

“Shh, Will, look at me. Where is Andrew Hammond’s body?”

A deep, shaking breath. “Wolf Trap. At the bottom of Spring Lake. But he’s here. He’s staring at me right now.”

Hannibal peered over his own shoulder to where Graham was suddenly staring, but nothing was there. He nodded, looking back at Will, before walking towards a polished cabinet.

“Who else are you seeing, Will?” He grasped a bottle of water and poured it into a small glass.

“Hobbs. The Ripper. Demons. Jack. Alana. You. I…feel unstable. Like I’m fading away. I don’t know what’s real. Did I kill even Hammond?”

“There is blood under your fingertips, Will. And I can smell him on you.”

Lecter moved toward Will once more, maintaining a calm reserve. “Drink this. I don’t want you to wake up and see a totem of your own making.”

Will swallowed the water, knowing Lecter kept bottles of it for stressed patients. The liquid was room temperature, unexpectedly warm, and tasted like cherries. It barely took the edge of a thirst he didn’t recall having. He was in the doctor’s office. He had drove there. Didn’t he? Handing back the empty glass, Will wiped his mouth. “What if I’m just hallucinating you, Dr. Lecter? What if I’m still at my house. Should I…did I drive here?”

“Sleep, Will.”

“I don’t….,” His breathing was labored. The agent eyed the drink in his friend’s hand.

“What did you- My head feels hot.”

Hannibal caught the man by the waist, head ducking under an arm to secure Will before he hit the carpet.

With the utmost care, Hannibal knelt down to place the man on the ground. He propped the slack form up, resting against the back of a chair. Tugging heavy eyelids open, Hannibal examined the dilated pupils before letting Will’s head fall back down. He advanced towards the door and locked it with an audible _click_. No interruptions.

Turning around, his eyes caught the sight of the comatose Will Graham. This was his night. His opportunity to correct a wrong in the only way he could now. Hammond was dead. He could only hope Will did not resist feral instinct when killing him. But that was a conversation for another evening. He crouched down in front of Will. The agent’s chest slowly rose and fell under a jacket and what Hannibal could only imagine was a sweat-drenched shirt. It was captivating to see the jerky, fidgeting man like this; so slacked and limp. Even as Will slept, visions always haunted his mind and caused his body to spasm and shudder. Will was always exposed and vulnerable, cracked and ready to break like a collective vase. Hannibal prized his mind over his body and never considered sedating Will for that reason; until now.

Now, he didn’t want to play mind games. He had a mission to accomplish with Will, and for once it did not include the man’s curious network of neurons. He had a game to play with the more physical components of their increasingly complex relationship.

Hannibal pulled Will’s jacket off and inspected the gauze wrapped around his wrists. He nodded to himself, _good_. Even in delirium, Will had been servicing his injuries. Curious, he unwound the scarf around Will’s neck and revealed pale skin with the fading bruises Hammond had placed there. Gripping the agent’s shoulders, Hannibal stopped resisting instinct and dived into his neck like a malnourished Dracula.

Lecter needed many things from Will Graham. Reassurance that he was still his. A cleansing. A revival. Hannibal was possessive by nature and few people knew the intimate detail. It never quite bothered him when patients would admire his antiques or when guests appreciated his artwork. It was there to be appreciated. But also imposing. Too intimidating to touch. Touching was a horrible offense, one of the worst, most rudest things one could ever do with a prized heirloom or favored object.

And it was with this quality trait that Hannibal bit into a delicate bruise on Will’s neck. The slowly-consuming anger that began when Hannibal examined the agent reached its peak. He could not let Hammond’s marks stay on his agent. It was an insult, an offense. Will was wrong about the Ripper; he did not mean for this ordeal to happen the way it did. Not by such a banal man, at least. Hannibal did not share things that were his in the proper way. He didn’t like them touched or played with by strangers; just admired behind glass.

Will tasted divine as though exquisite wine raced through his vessels instead of blood. If there was such a thing as a perfect partner, Hannibal had found his. Will was devastatingly perfect, and it not just for his mind anymore. He licked, suckled every bruise on his neck and collarbone, going as far as to peel of bandages to have his share. Andrew Hammond had kissed Will. Touched him everywhere and invaded the most intimate parts of him. He was a fool and Hannibal would not be outdone by one. He knew, with time, Will would prefer Lecter’s marks on his skin. The doctor could condition his body to think so, as Will’s mind would sputter and wonder why.

Hannibal grabbed a mat of hair on Will’s head, exposing a side of his neck and he knelt closer, nearly pressing his body against Will’s before nipping an ear lobe. Will Graham would be Hannibal Lecter’s undoing. The power he held over him was alarming. Will became the only thing Hannibal wanted to touch and he didn’t care. The man had never felt complete before, never felt the presence of someone who could make him feel less alone. He wanted to show Will his shadows, wanted the man to follow him into the dark and see what he had brought to life.

He could feel his pulse jump, his heart truly stutter as he placed a chaste kiss to the smaller man’s lips. It was a foreign sensation, something that brought him on the edge of paradise. Hannibal let out a silent exhale of breath, pressing back, and his lashes fluttered down to close his eyes. He imprinted the moment into his memory, to be kept and cherished, for just a second. He let his barricade crash down then, and gave into his urge completely.

He moved an arm behind Will, tracing the low back before traveling up, underneath the shirt to feel the old lacerations. He could feel goosebumps rise, Will’s delicate body shudder. He couldn’t help but press into the skin, opening fresh wounds with his nails as he leaned in once more to Will’s neck. The agent would wake up confused, not understanding how his injuries had gotten worse, but place the blame on himself and his mental state. This allowed Lecter more freedoms as he touched his doll, not concerned with evidence or cautiousness as he normally was when hunting.

He stroked Will’s thighs through the denim, listening to his hushed breaths anytime fingers approached between his legs. Will was still flaccid, but one couldn’t expect miracles the first time. His body had to grow accustomed to pain before it could start feeling pleasure. But once it did, Hannibal imagined he could then cease the use of sedatives.

Spreading Will’s legs out, he knelt between him and unbuttoned the agent’s jeans. The moment he took Will into his warm hand, his mouth landed on an exposed wrist. He bit at the bruises, the small scabs, using his tongue to shove away the bandaging and taste the seeping blood. Will gasped with half-lidded eyes but his hips pushed forward. Hannibal continued motions with his hand, watching the drugged man as he sunk his teeth into Will’s wrist and licked up any red. Will shuddered again, rutting forward on the carpet. Every inch of Will’s skin was like a holy grail. He wanted to find, plunder, take it for his own and keep it forever.

Lecter dropped Will’s arm and used a finger to erase any remnants of blood on his mouth. Curious, wanting to feel without a barrier of latex, Hannibal used his second hand to journey deeper into Will’s jeans and boxers. Will let out a mewling whimper when Hannibal entered him. It was an odd positioning, and Graham was still sore, but Hannibal gave himself the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps Will had enjoyed it. The shorter male began to stir, mumbling something Hannibal couldn’t understand. Knowing time is dissipating, he leaned in again and took Will’s mouth in a deep, though unreciprocated kiss.

Hannibal savored what he could before patching his walls back up and telling himself another time will come: soon.

Pulling away, Will said something else, slurring, but still not quite moving.

A few more minutes passed. Hannibal adjusted and fixed Will’s jeans, tucking his length back inside, and corrected what bandages he could. Will’s legs jerked back to life, along with his arms, and his eyes struggled to focus.

“Han...nibal?”

“You’ve been sleeping, Will.” He said as he helped to lift the dazed man up. He held him, watching Will try to gain his bearings as he straightened the agent’s pants out and fixed his bunched-up shirt. “You were hysterical. I gave you a light sedative.” He spoke casually.

Will shook his head as strength began to blossom back. “How…long have I been out?”

“Not long. I didn’t intend for you to sleep, just relax.”

The profiler squinted at the closest clock, sighing. “Well…I think I feel... better? Maybe drugs are the only way I can get some sleep.”

“It’s not the healthiest option,” Hannibal made a show of checking Will’s eyes, “but I would prefer you do it in my company rather than alone. It would save you having to steal from my carrier, and I could make sure you don’t fall into a coma.”

Will frowned. “I’m sorry I-”

“No apologies, William. I understand that you felt desperate. Now, any hallucinations? Does your mind still feel unhinged?”

Graham breathed deeply. “No. I feel…good. Not as knotted. Loose.”

Hannibal turned around to retrieve Will’s jacket, a small smile twitching free. Only Will Graham could set his heart on fire in rare pulsating pattern. And he would have all of Will, just as much and even more than Andrew did. Beautiful, tortured William.

“Maybe...maybe I’ll take you up on that offer. About, um, more sessions.”

Will felt a dull throbbing along the side of his neck.

“Of course. Judging what I’ve seen, I would like to see you on three separate occasions, every week.”

“Okay.” He picked at a loose bandage from a wrist, realizing he had been so far down the rabbit’s hole, that he never realized he had been hurting himself. “Thank you, Hannibal. For….everything. For….dealing with this. I don’t know who else I’d turn to. Who else would want me.”

Lecter watched as Will staggered with his first few steps, like he felt some odd sensation he couldn’t explain. With an amused look that paraded as an appreciative smile, Hannibal handed him his coat.

“Understand that my door is always open, Will. You can always trust me to help you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the support, comments, kudos:) Been slacking a little bit, but still tried to make this chapter as long as I could.


	6. Chapter 6

_It didn’t feel like a dream._

_The image was blurry, but some moments became so crisp, Will could remember every detail of the monstrous face that was so close to him. He looked into the pair of reflective black eyes that stared back- like animal eyes, the two onyx marbles belonging to an ancient beast, hungry wolf. They were empty, soulless, pulled from a pit of something impure and twisted. The knowing hands wandered over his body, spurring fiery tingles along every inch of his skin. Insolent and cold fingers that made him whine and shiver. He was naked, his limbs numb and slow. Uncooperative._

_It was hard to see his surroundings as the monster loomed over and above him, but somehow Will knew it was a forgotten cemetery. His head rested against a tombstone. Large hands appeared on his lower back, moving slowly, feeling his back and his ass. It touched his inner thighs before moving in-between his legs. Will felt the hand grow warm. It was difficult to breathe. It always was at this part._

_The demon pressed into him and it burned as its darkness entered his bloodstream. It was like thousands of parasitic wasps chewing their way through his veins. Will couldn’t scream, his mouth was slack. It was all-consuming, making him into something he didn’t want to become. A heavy white noise settled in his head._

_The sound of a wild stag bellowing in the forest echoed. Will knew it was dying._

_The monster pressed onto him, absorbing Will into its being and touching everywhere. He tried to shutter, tensing his muscles to make the task more difficult. Black liquid slithered through the dying grass and twisted up and onto Will’s legs and arms. It coiled and wrapped around him, seeping through his skin and leaving dark spots. Hands -were they still hands at this point?- slipped down and Will gasped as his length was caressed even though the rest of him was burning with pain. It massaged him, just enough for the member to slowly rise. Will bucked and writhed, not wanting to look down but somehow forced to. Its black mouth swallowed the member, a slithering tongue that wasn’t a tongue moved further to the head of it, snaking down the urethra as lips slid up and down the shaft. Will gurgled, choked, feeling the black, sticky liquid bubble at his wrists and chest. He felt himself tighten, ready for a release, and the tongue inside his body coiled back._

_Will’s body lifted off the ground as he came._

\- - -

Opening his eyes to sunlight streaming through a window, Will lifted his head from the pillow. Accustomed to the hazy satisfaction that continued to coarse through his body from another night of disturbing sleep, he wasn’t surprised when a hand slid down between his legs to find the cold stickiness of his shame.

Will remembered the first morning his body woke up well rested, but not his mind. His eyes had widened, close to hyperventilating, at the sight of newborn contusions after a wet dream. He used that term lightly, as nothing within the night terrors could possibly be considered erotic by anyone, Will especially.

His feelings towards the subject matter was irrelevant as he threw another pair of briefs into the laundry. In the crowded freezer of ice packs, Will pulled out the smallest one with a frozen breakfast plate. It was something he attuned himself to before heading off to Quantico. The Stag Man was almost constant company now: standing outside doorways, lingering just within the woods when he let the dogs out, looming in the darkest corners of his classroom. There, in the kitchen, Will glanced at the shadowed figure emerging from the living room, gave it a slight nod, and took another spoonful of stale egg. The ice pack rested in the corner of his shoulder and neck.

When you can’t fight the horror, ignore it.

After breakfast, he eased into a bath. Will observed the spots of light wandering over his body, distorted by the water’s surface. The scratches and bruises left by his own hands stung a little, but found the warm water inviting. He rubbed his face with his hands as if trying to wipe away the weariness and leaned back more comfortably in the tub. Showers had begun to sting his skin. This was his only choice now.

Will closed his eyes.

He was always different. All through his childhood, Will always cared more about dogs than he had for people. Friends were not important, but his mother made sure he never shunned someone away when they invited him to a birthday party. However odd, he always had the unique talent of exceptional empathy. Walking in someone else’s shoes was a daily occurrence. His father denied it and his mother couldn’t remember, but maybe he was dropped on the head as a child. Maybe a certain neuron never turned off or didn’t quite register synapses right. Whatever the reason, Will’s mind always acted just a few degrees off normal.

The hallucinations of Hobbs, Hammond, demons, and, at times, even his own friends quickly disturbed his mind. It was difficult to analyze a crime scene without drifting back to his own murder in Andrew Hammond’s house. The bruises that man gave him were still present on his body, his own hands somehow finding the exact spots and stopping them from leaving with each nightmare. Since that night, his memory had been blanking. Hours passed by like microseconds, leaving Will confused and forced to accept his sporadic time travel. His attendance at Hannibal’s office never wavered given his mental state, but perhaps his head knew the monumental importance of getting the help it urgently needed.

Will avoided talking about his dreams with Dr. Lecter most evenings. Instead, the two men played chess as Will tried to talk about his humiliation in the playhouse. He tried his hand at sketching to alleviate the haunting visions of killing Andrew, though the effort was short lived when they compared drawings; Hannibal had drawn Will sketching, not missing a single detail in the pencil lines, capturing Will’s concentrated ceases in his forehead as he attempted to doodle each of his dogs.

 

 

_“If I knew this was a competition, I would have at least tried for realism.” Will grimaced at his pets with stick legs and triangle ears. The way Lecter had drawn him, slouching in his chair with his eyebrows furrowed over his own paper, belonged in a museum._

_"One cannot compare apples to oranges.” Hannibal took his friend’s doodle for safe keeping. “You drew the ones closest to you, who give you comfort and a feeling of stability. They keep your nightmares at bay, so you surround yourself with them.”_

_“M_ _an’s best friend.” Will smiled._

_“I consider us friends, Will. So when the nightmares do come, and they will, I hope you can share them with me.”_

 

His body was covered with old and blooming bruises. He couldn’t remember nights falling asleep, or even driving home from Lecter’s office. He caught himself sleepwalking during the day. All of these things, Will avoided with Hannibal. He only focused on the rape, because that was what the symptoms were brought on by. A traumatic event would do horrible things to a normal person. But a traumatic event to a unstable man might cause even stranger things.

Will opened an eye, noticing the water in the bathtub had cooled. Half-hidden by a doorframe, the corpse of Hammond lurked across the bathroom, staring at him.

His mind wasn’t just a few degrees off normal any more. It felt something more like miles.

\- - -

“I want you to follow me.”

It was cold in the hallway, and a ceiling vent created an unneeded breeze. The moment Will found himself ambushed by the chilly air and bland sunlight through unshielded windows, he acknowledged the soreness in his muscles, stinging pricks of pain when the material of his clothes brushed against the scratches. That general reluctance of remembering reemerged and, to drift away from those thoughts, he looked at Jack walking beside him.

They slowly made their way to his office, where Will expected a briefing on fresh case or, considering the man’s stoic silence, something more personal. For almost two months Will Graham was back at the academy, giving lectures on psychoanalyzing and sharing coffee with Alana in the break room. It was uncomfortable and strange to pretend that he had just overcome a terrible flu, especially to a colleague Will always envisioned becoming something more to him.

Hannibal Lecter kept his promise, at least as far as Will knew. He never revealed his atrocious secret, never used the information as a form of blackmail since the discomforting examination. Hammond was officially declared missing. When a few agent went to his house to ask some more questions, they found his house cleared out and littered with boxes. Neighbors hadn’t seen or heard anything. His ex-wife, a Heather May, said she wasn’t surprised that he’d randomly leave. That “ _maybe his past finally caught up to him_.”

As soon as they both entered through the door, Jack threw the folder in his hand against his desk, greeting someone with a cordial, “Get the hell out of here, Lounds.”

The skinny, maroon-haired woman stood up from her perch against a wall and sauntered closer to the men. Will earnestly stared daggers in the young woman’s direction. If she had known what her slanderous article had caused him, Will liked to think she wouldn’t still be standing there with an arrogant smile.

“I’m here on business, I assure you, Agent Crawford.” She turned to Will, notepad in hand. “I hear you’ve been seeing Dr. Lecter.”

“If you’re going to hop on that site of yours and continue to scandalize Graham, I’ll have you arrested.”

“On what charges?”

“You’re walking on thin ice, Lounds.”

If the woman could see the hostility in Crawford’s eyes, she pretended not to notice. “I only implied a one-sided relationship, Jack. You can’t blame me for people deciding their own version of the truth.”

“No, but I can blame you making my job more difficult than it needs to be.”

“Dr. Lecter and I are coworkers,” Will shoved his hands into his pockets. “Seeing each other often is part of working together.”

“Yes, but I noticed you’ve been doing it more frequently. And, I was more curious as for the location of your conversations. A therapist couch is kinda odd, isn’t it?”

The agent took a step forward. “ _Have you been listening_ -”

“Will.” Jack pressed his office phone into his ear, “I need security escort now. Lounds, leave.”

“Why? You just ordered escorts for me. Can’t we talk as I wait for them?”

As Freddie spoke, Will lunged for the mousy woman. His boss was able to hold out a powerful arm to stop his colleague from snapping her in two, but Freddie didn’t gasp from the implicit threat. There were deep bruises scattering Will’s exposed arm. Jack was flabbergasted as well, holding into the man’s wrist just a second longer to understand what he saw. Will shook off his boss’s grip, propelling hands back into pockets.

“Are people _attacking_ you? I had no idea-” Her eyes bulged; she blurted, “Will, I came here to apologize. Antagonizing is in my nature but…look, it’s been four months now since that article. I’ve updated the page three times since and there is still a frenzy out there about you.” Lounds was a strong woman, her mother taught her at a young age to speak her mind, get what she wanted, and wear red lipstick while doing it. People have been hurt when it came to her publications before -it came with the territory of tabloids- but seeing the psychologically disheveled Will physically messed up made a heaviness fall over her. “I’m sorry, Will. If I knew you’d still be dealing with this, I wouldn’t have done it.”

“No. You still would have.”

“Will-

“Sir?” Two agents stood outside Jack’s office. The director gestured at Lounds, not taking his eyes off the woman, and the men stepped inside.

“You should let me interview you, Will, so people can read what you have to say. Portray the Ripper as a stalker, a creep-” An officer shut the door.

“Take a seat. I’ve been putting off this conversation as long as I could, Will. You know what this is about.”

“Yeah.”

Jack glanced at his long sleeves, mentally cataloging all the occasions he’d seen the profiler bundled in layers. A suit jacket became Will’s second skin. His wool scarves suddenly didn’t seem fashionable as they did functional to hide scratches. “I suggested security once. I’m going to turn that into an instruction.”

“I don’t need security. I can handle-”

“You call those bruises handling it?”

“I am.” His eyes flicked to a corner of the office. “Why does everyone think I’m made of porcelain?”

“Just tell me what’s going on.”

“You brought me in here to grant me personal leave. Whatever I tell you will only encourage that fact.”

“I think, as the director of the behavioral sciences unit, I should know whenever my team members are being hunted. We‘re all worried about you. I don‘t want to send you away without knowing why I am.”

“It’s just stress.” He looked away.

The incredulous answer filled the room with unneeded tension.

Jack pressed on. “From work? What you’re doing for me?”

“Everything.” Will pinched his nose. “The cases. Traveling to crime scenes. The people. I had two reporters sneak their way into my class last week. And I’ve having night terrors. I think I’ve been giving myself these bruises in my sleep.”

“Has Lecter been helping you?”

“He’s been trying to.”

“Well, he’ll have more time to try. I’m giving you three weeks. More if you need it. I want you to get better. To overcome…whatever this is.”

“I don’t know what to call it either.” Will stood, adjusting his coat as Jack watched with tired eyes. The agent adverted his gaze once more before pushing his glasses higher on his nose. “Thank you, Jack. I’ll keep in touch.”

“You do that.”

Jack watched his recruit wander out of his room, waiting until he disappeared from the glass panels to turn in his chair. There was a fake house plant in the corner of the office, standing in a plain black vase just out of the sun’s reach. Crawford sighed, unsure of why Graham seemed so concerned with the shadow.

\- - -

Will sat in his car for ten minutes before opening the door. He took his time crossing the street, then wasted a few more minutes to readjust a shoe lace. He glanced up at the imposing building, feeling dismayed, and trekked forth.

Like the profiler always made sure to do, he carefully stepped around the corner upon entering the waiting room, knowing the location of (what Will could only imagine to be) a priceless vase. Will seated himself in a cushioned chair, trying not to give any attention to the corpse of Hammond who took a seat beside him. If Dr. Lecter was in his office, he didn’t want to unintentionally disturb him if he already had a patient. And if he wasn’t currently meeting with a patient, then hopefully he wouldn’t hear and invite Will in earlier.

There were no secretaries still, even when Lecter made a mention of hiring a new one. Not a sound was heard other than his own racing heart through his ribcage and the distant ticking of a clock. Will eyed the fine art covering the walls. Lecter was wealthy, and he could certainly afford to change up his decor nearly every few months. He had a high success rate with his patients. And the hazardous pay must be high for the risk for lethal agents going through disturbing meltdowns they couldn’t handle.

Will continued to hope his friend could cure him soon, that he was talented enough to help him recover without Will having to divulge anything…embarrassing. Ha. He brushed down his jacket, glancing over at a large grandfather clock that signaled six-ten. It was just a 60 minute session with a friend, he told himself. Maybe they’d just draw pictures again or he could reminisce about New Orleans.

Will realized he never stopped fidgeting with the buttons of his coat. Although it was pleasant outside, a mild breeze only upsetting a few strands of hair, he continued to wear a winter’s coat, no matter how much his skin seemed to wait it off. Frustrated with his nervous ticks, Will stood and began to walk around the room, eyeing various artifacts. There was a thick bookshelf, filled with old medical journals and books on mental disorders and ways to cope through them. There were cliché international trinkets one would find in a doctor’s office; old magnifying glasses, small but obviously expensive statues. The walls were decorated with paintings, and they looked to be originals. The brush strokes were vivid. There were areas of clumped paint that looked as though one could just scratch off. One painting in particular was beautiful, peaceful. It was a depiction of a landscape, a dense forest somewhere in Greece. A waterfall was featured in the center, godly mountains in the background. It was oddly comforting. Another canvas depicted Greek divinities in the midst of chaos.

“Peter Paul Rubens. Hades and Persephone.”

Will turned his head to the tall, stoic man standing beside him. He had been so quiet, never heard him approach. The other man continued to look at the painting with a faint smile, as though recollecting a distant memory.

“My apologies. I was ready to invite you inside when I noticed you were admiring the piece.”

Will looked back at the Gods. “I thought it was called the _Rape of Persephone_. Or, the worse day in Persephone’s life. Heard back then it was a much more chilling story.”

“What else have you heard?”

“That the abduction was the cause of the seasons. That a few months out of the year the lands die because Persephone did.”

Dr. Lecter smiled wider, which wasn’t too much of an impossibility. His first smirk was nothing more than a slant of the lips. “Hades was clever. He convinced the goddess that life with him wouldn’t be so terrible in the underworld. He gave her everything she wanted, allowed her freedoms.”

Will continued to look at the piece. “Hades had _tricked_ her. Clever gives a positive connotation to the situation, Dr. Lecter. With this piece in your waiting room, I can’t help but think Hades is a favorite deity of yours.”

“It’s not the most therapeutic scenery for my clients. But interesting to me.” The other man confessed, turning to face him. “You truly think Hades would be my preferred deity?”

Will smiled with a quick shake of his head. “No. Apollo.”

“You’re right. He’s the god of knowledge and of the arts.”

_And masculine beauty_ , Will mused.

“Who is your favorite deity, Will?”

“Hephaestus.” He said.

“The skilled craftsman, the blacksmith of the gods. Why do you choose him?”

“He’s crippled. He likes dogs. His talent is used by others. I’m a simple man, Hannibal.”

The doctor’s eyes stayed on him. “Do you know how Apollo and Hephaestus are linked?”

“Ah…brothers, right?”

“Yes, but there is more to it than that. Apollo was born first and then helped Hera bore Hephaestus. Apollo was the one who first gave him the axe he would forever wield. Many believe this to be literally true.”

Will dully nodded. “The stories about Greek, Roman gods are true in the same sense poems are,” He shrugged. “The stories are nice, though.” When Will looked back at Hannibal, he noticed that he had stepped forward and his eyes never strayed from his face. Will could feel color coming into his cheeks. It was just a conversation about religion and poetry and yet, suddenly, it felt too intimate for friends. Will pictured Hannibal having sex, maybe to him. It wasn’t entirely unlikely for the psychiatrist to have an attraction for the same sex; he had never married. Will knew or heard of no women he had ever dated. It didn’t explicitly mean _gay_ , but it ticked some points to that particular bulletin.

Hannibal no longer smiled. Instead his gaze held an intensity it had not held before. Will felt as though he read his mind. Maybe they weren’t Apollo and Hephaestus, he thought. Maybe they were more similar to the deities in the portrait.

“Could I suggest a painting of Apollo then? I’m sure portrayals of him make ones self-hood dissolve much more effectively than… _that_.”

“Uneasy about my taste in art, Will?”

Uneasy about everything, actually. “No, no, not that.” He waved a hand. “Just, you know, if you have some clients who like art. This may give them the wrong signal.”

“I will surely take your suggestion under consideration.”

“I didn’t mean to insult your décor.”

“Of course not. I enjoy cultured discussion. It’s refreshing.” He smiled, gesturing to his open office door.

“Well, it is a nice piece of mythology I guess.”

“I meant your attitude, Will. I enjoy conversation with a lively partner. You consider your mind to be in shambles, but I wish others were more like it.”

Will couldn’t take his eyes off the tall man leading him to the chairs. Hannibal played the part of nobility well, and perhaps he was. This man could have been an aristocrat, belonging to a long line of them, favorited by all of the city’s wealth. “Wish more people were like you, to be honest.”

“I would certainly hope not. If you’d take a seat, we can get started,” Hannibal gestured once more. Will took the cue, listening to the click of the door shut behind them. He sat close to the edge of the chair, his posture erect, his hands flattening his jacket as to not fidget. Already he began to regret this decision coming today. The doctor looked at him as he walked to his own plush seat and unbuttoned his jacket before folding himself down. “Would you like to continue where we left off?”

It was difficult to read him as his eyes revealed nothing. His wide lips were set in a straight line. Will made a show of looking around his office as an excuse to avoid his examining gaze. His bookshelves one floor up were a comforting distraction.

“I can’t remember where we left off.”

Lecter crossed a leg over his knee. “Do you have trouble sleeping?”

The other male scanned the various shelves above him, surrounding him, and when he looked back at Lector, he was reaching for a sleek clipboard beside his chair. A metal pen clicked in his opposite hand. He was already taking notes.

“I don’t sleep,” Will sighed. “I dream.”

“What do you dream about?”

“Monsters.”

The pen stopped. “The ones you catch with Jack?”

“No. Beasts. And Hammond. I’m always tied up. Always somewhere in the dark. I’m suffocating. And the creature…the medieval thing is slowly killing me and I can’t fight back.”

“The aggressor changes?”

“Yes. Some nights it’s a vampire playing with my blood. Or a demon trying to eat me. Or Hammond finishing what he started.”

Hannibal set his clipboard down, gauging Will more critically. “These dreams feature torture?”

“Rape, torture, blood. It’s all there. Most nights. Other nights, I don’t remember anything.”

“Why did you decide to tell me about your dreams today?”

Will glanced at the closed door. “Because they’ve been getting worse. And Jack put me on leave.”

“I know. He called before you arrived here.”

“You want to know about the bruises too?”

“I admit I’m curious. But we will only talk about what you’re comfortable with, Will.”

The profiler noticed the faint and shallow lines along Lecter’s face, but he seemed to be in perfect shape. The man was unconventionally handsome. It was odd. Will never noticed any personal photographs in his office as well as the visits to his house. None of him of family. No children or old friends. “You said the dreams were getting worse. In what way?”

Maybe the lack of photographs wasn’t odd. He dealt with people with mental illnesses, after all. He probably withheld photos for the same reasons Will did; he didn’t want others knowing who his family was or his friends were.

“More pain.” Will shifted in his seat, picking at nonexistent lint. Why was he suddenly so fixated on the man? “I wake up in my bed sweating and screaming. I feel rested, but…”

“…You’re confused as to why. You think you’re hurting yourself in your sleep.”

“I- hm…” Will looked up, but what caught his attention now was something behind Hannibal- a shadowed man much like the one he grew acquainted with for the last few months. It peered out from behind Hannibal’s shoulder, glaring at him as his friend sat obliviously just centimeters away. “I…”

“Will? Are your injuries healing, at least?”

“N-no. When the old bruises start, um, fading, I give myself new ones in the same place.” He wiped his hands along his pants, his breath quickening. The thing continued to stare at him, unmoving. Unblinking. As though waiting for him to move. He sputtered. “S-s-something is happening to me. Something that shouldn’t be.” The words lacked strength. He couldn’t get enough oxygen to say them at all. Lecter titled his head.

“You went through something horrendous, Will. And with your keen sense of empathy, your mind is trying-”

“ _This isn’t normal,_ Hannibal.” Will threw his jacket on the carpet with a violent swing, revealing the bruises that littered his arms. Bruises from Hammond that should have disappeared weeks ago. “I’m sleeping again but now I don’t want to. I’m hurting myself and I wake up liking it. And,” he glanced back up at Hannibal, trying to ignore the demon and its cannibal teeth, “the nightmares are following me.”

“You have dreams reenacting what Hammond had put you through and you wake up feeling aroused after such torturous dreams.”

“ _I’m not a masochist._ ”

“No. But perhaps this is your mind’s way of dealing with the abrupt transition from hunter to prey. You empathize with the killers you wish to catch and now, suddenly, you have experienced the precise opposite.”

“So what can I do to make everything stop?” Will’s voice stuck in his throat, threatening to crack, pathetic. “I thought just sleeping would help. Obviously I need to scratch that off the list.”

He felt a warm hand on his head, heard a glass gently settle on the table beside him. Will eyed the small cup and took the drink without question, needing something; anything to try to calm himself. Hannibal knelt down in front of Will, his voice soft. “Let us continue our sessions as usual. Though I hope you drop your habits of keeping secrets. You don’t have to go through this alone.”

Will listened to Hannibal, but he couldn’t look up. No way. That thing would still be there, attaching itself to his closest friend. He wiped his lips. “I will also prescribe you something to help with your dreams. If you are not aware during them, then perhaps your injuries will subside.”

“I’m terrified, Hannibal. I think I finally broke.”

The media, the hallucinations and nightmares, the Ripper, Hammond. Demons stalking. When did his life become a crime scene he was always an onlooker to? A victim of a modern day horror movie?

“Will, as both your doctor and a friend, I’m going to suggest you go to sleep. Here. Now.”

“ _What_?” Will stared at the ground with widening eyes.

“This will be your last time without any pills. But you will be in my company.”

“Here?” He repeated, “I can’t sleep when I’m like this-” - _with that thing in the room_.

“Do you feel safe with me, Will?”

“Well, yeah…but just…sleeping here?” Will didn’t want something horrifically embarrassing to happen within his pants, therapist or not. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

“The moment I think you will hurt yourself, I will wake you. But I need you to do this for me. After this one experiment, I will make sure your night terrors cease. I promise.”

“It’s not just a matter of _yes or no_ , Dr. Lecter. I don’t think I could sleep here if I tried.”

“I already took care of that. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“What are you talking about? The-the water? You drugged my water? _Fucking_ -” Will finally straightened from his crouched position, eyeing the glass he consumed in one frantic swallow. “Hannibal, I don’t want to…please…give me something to wake me-”

“Shhh,” Dr. Lecter pressed Will against his chest to settle his shivering. “Nothing will happen to you, Will. I will not leave you.”

“Please…” He cried into Hannibal’s dress shirt, grabbing onto the suit’s lapels, “I-I can’t be alone.”

-

_Drinks were not obligatory. They were too voluntary._

_Hannibal reserved wine or water when he knew Will would be too shaken to realize. When Will Graham came to his office, he was always there to recover, even if he decided to do that through mindless conversation. Will didn’t visit to accept wine in the evening, and Hannibal did not like to waste glasses laced with sedatives._

_“Huh. You know, I always see a painting I haven’t noticed the last time I was here.”_

_Lecter loomed behind the profiler with a syringe hidden in his jacket sleeve. He watched as Will cocked his head, admiring the delicate paint strokes and wooden frame. He enjoyed simple pleasures, like subtle rearranging his art collection so he could observe Will just a bit longer._

_Will carefully scanned the landscape imagined by Frederick Edwin Church as Hannibal took a careful step forward. He caught the younger man before he could hit the ground._

_For weeks, it was that easy._

_-_

_Another day, another session._

_Will was in the office of what he once described as “impressive and intimidating”. His soft curls were combed through, resting evenly on his head. Today was a good day, Hannibal knew. The bruises were surely fading by now. Will must think the worst was over. Eyes clear and brown, smile naïve and simple, it was easy to think one was insane to consider such a mousy man capable of brutally killing the Southside Rapist. But that was what Will counted on. Lecter should know._

_He slid Will’s amateur drawing into his file before showing Will out the door. He pressed the needle into his upper arm. He looked into Will’s eyes as he reflexively grabbed the syringe and looked back at Hannibal confused and angry, before his body grew slack against his. Hannibal cradled him in his arms as they sunk to the floor together. His breathing was normal, relaxed. He checked Will’s half-opened eyes; they were dilated, but fine. The weekly dose wouldn’t cause any long-term repercussions. Will mumbled incoherently as Hannibal helped him to his chaise at the opposite end of the room. The drug worked as a sedative as well as a psychoactive medication; meant to subdue its victim, immobilize, substantially relax inhibitions, and impair memory so the drugged episode could only appear as a faint sense of déjà vu in the person’s mind. It was a clever mix of chemicals, but it traveled and disgusted fast in the system._

_Lecter sat on the edge of the chaise, watching as Will tried to understand what had happened. He knew Will felt his warm fingers as they touched the pulse point under his neck, an even warmer hand pressing against his forehead. The profiler’s thoughts couldn’t connect or flow. Instead they were dreadfully cloudy, ever changing and a bizarre mix of shapes. His tongue probably felt lazy and swollen._

_Hannibal slipped Will’s shoes off and propped his legs upon his lap. The fingers caressing the fabric above his feet made Will gasp at the tinkling, warm sensation. It was always magnificent to see that constant front dissolve, his wall crash down. Will bared his emotions so readily now, flaying himself open to Hannibal without any hesitation or second thoughts. He allowed his eyes to travel the length of Will’s squirming body, over his lips, past his chest, the angle of his hips._

_Since the first session, Hannibal controlled himself enough to only do this once out of every three appointments. He grew obsessively intrigued with the bruises lining Will’s arms, replacing old ones and claiming the new. Will moaned in his daze when a hand swept up and under his chest. Hannibal Lecter would continue to touch Will Graham until the tipping point._

_Because Will had to come to Hannibal willingly._

-

“What are you talking about? The-the water? You drugged my water? _Fucking_ -” Will straightened from his crouched position, looking at the glass with something like horror in his eyes. “Hannibal, I don’t want to…please…give me something to wake me-”

“Shhh,” Hannibal pressed Will against his chest to settle his shivering. “Nothing will happen to you, Will. I will not leave you.”

“Please…” Will sobbed into his dress shirt, gasping onto the suit’s lapels, “I-I can’t be alone.”

Hannibal continued to soothe Will against his buttoned vest, feeling the tremors wrack Will’s body. It grew and grew until he shook uncontrollably and he made strange muffled noises into the vest’s material. There was a deep groaning noise, and it took a moment for Hannibal to realize that it came from Will's throat. He tried to hold the sound back, but it fought past his teeth. The man found himself hugging his doctor just as he used to as a little boy, crying for a lost dog.

He felt the darkness coming, the uninvited numbness of sleep. The tears ran as he sank into the black suit, and he felt like all the years separating him from being that helpless child had never passed at all.

Hannibal returned the embrace, patting and rubbing his back. He did this, until Will finally grew slack against him.

He let his hands roam Will’s body, feeling himself tighten and harden. Hannibal made sure not to bite hard, but still taste Will’s skin. He reveled in the way the man moved and struggled like he had a chance of getting away. There was a taste as he kissed Will’s skin, like burnt cherries. The moan from the smaller man’s throat confirmed what Hannibal suspected and hoped for weeks. Will’s body enjoyed this roughness, found pleasure in both pain and tenderness, even if his conscious wouldn’t. That would come later. Hannibal pressed himself against Will, squeezing bruises and his throat as he thrusted.

He knew what he wanted, and he listened as Will’s body did as well. Will liked this, responded to the pain. He welcomed it in his sleep, felt ashamed waking up. It was mesmerizing to watch Will when he was awake, limping and not knowing why or feeling the bruises around his wrists and not understanding why he would harm himself in his sleep. The man wracked his brain with answers, trying to make sense of his dreams and uncover a truth he could never understand. He tested first, with neat fingers to see how loose Will has become.

He slid in, watching his hand disappear inside Will’s body, and he flicked his eyes up to watch Will’s flutter. Breathtaking.

Time passed in stillness and silence, yet the doctor found it impossible to give in to his own exhaustion. He laid beside the sleeping body, feeling the warm lips pressed to his neck and slow breath brushing against his skin. Hannibal closed his eyes, emitting a small exhale, trying to will the insistent, unrelenting blood from running downwards once more.

To have Will so defenseless and close - it was unreal and each time more difficult to believe. He felt his fingers once again claw over Will’s body in an upsurge of emotions he wasn’t able to define… But stopped. Before some part of Will’s consciousness had a chance to awake, Hannibal took a long breath and enveloped him in a tight embrace, adjusting his position until Will looked comfortable against the warm chaise.

And Will burrowed into Hannibal, not realizing what he was doing.

\- - -

Will sat up, covered in sweat.

He looked around, his sight still slightly blurry; he barely recognized the large room. Lecter’s office, he recalled after a few seconds. He pressed palms into his face, trying to force the remains of his drowsiness away. It wasn’t long before he finally felt the inevitable grip of reality tighten over his mind. He brushed away strands of hair from his sweat slicked forehead and looked around again, this time with more caution. The late-afternoon sun barely got through the blinds, and combined with his dazed state, made the office look almost surreal. He reached up to his temples, feeling the blood pump under his fingertips. It had been a long time since he slept so soundly. No dreams rocked through his head. His body must have forgotten how to deal with it.

“Yes. Three weeks. Of course. We will make visits, but I believe it’s within his best interest to avoid the area. Yes.”

Will craned his stiff neck to see Hannibal sitting behind his desk, phone pressed against an ear as he took quick notes. He glanced at the man across the room, acknowledging he had awakened, before wrapping up the quiet conversation. The agent, meanwhile, curled his toes and reached for shoes he didn’t remember taking off. He still felt lethargic with clumsy movements that took him a few ties to accurately tie his oxfords. He wanted to grab his jacket, button it around himself so body heat could make it warm and envelope him. But it was too far away on the floor, and Will didn’t want to get up from the cushioned chaise. He sat, looking at the abandoned coat with a fixed stare. Hannibal’s soft footsteps jarred him out of limbo.

“What happened?”

The man stood in front of Will, looking at him like he was a wild animal faking domestication. “You don’t remember your acute psychotic episode?”

“Psychotic…? No.” Will’s face scrunched up. “I remember coming here after Jack…Did he tell you?”

“About what?”

“The bruises?”

Lecter frowned. “Yes. But you decided to discuss the subject with me anyway. Do you remember our session, Will?”

“….No. I mean, barely. I remember being frightened.”

“You were suffering from more hallucinations. Do you see any now?”

Will swallowed without realizing, flicking his gaze to quickly sweep the room in front of him of any demonic beings already watching him. Fortunately, there were none. “No.”

“Good. We decided it would be best if you tried to sleep. I monitored you under the assumption you might have tried to injure yourself once more.”

Will reflexively looked down. His shirt was untucked, his pants were disheveled, and there were no embarrassing stains or painful beads of blood breaking skin. He still felt handled, but Will wanted to blame the chaise and sleeping in stiff fabrics.

“Your still tried, Will.”

The image of him sleepwalking inside his house, hurting his dogs with blood-misted hands came to mind and Will never wanted to shut his eyes again. There is something disturbingly frightening about having no control over your own body. Hurting yourself or others while your mind is not conscious made the valves of Will’s heart twist. There something deep within him then, something wrong with his subconscious. Had he absorbed Andrew Hammond that night he killed him, had his ability for empathy reached its limit and refused to unwind itself?

“I-I’m dangerous, aren’t I? To everyone? To me? What if I start- start hurting my dogs when I sleep?”

“I have a suggestion, Will.” Hannibal crouched to see his eyes better.

“Yes. Please. I’ll do anything at this point.”

“I would like you to be under my care.”

Will blinked. “What do you mean? You’re already my doctor.”

“I would like to supervise you, continually. That means you would stay at my house and I will help you get over your hallucinations, aid in a faster recovery. I would also monitor your behavior as well as sleep patterns. I believe, considering our friendship, this wouldn’t be too outlandish.”

“You want to psychoanalyze me. 24/7.” Will deadpanned.

“We will have as many or as little appointments each week as you would like. Outside this office, we are friends. I just want to keep you safe, Will.”

Will considered the possibility of reporters surrounding his isolated house. He envisioned his demons there waiting for him, peering out the corners of windows for his return. “If I accept…we’d just be, what? Living together like two bachelors?”

“More like a vacation, Will. For you. Under my watch.”

“You couldn’t stay at my place?”

“I know that would be ideal. Comforting. But staying at a location where the media and work cannot reach you would be best. We can still visit your dogs, but I already contacted Alana. She is more than willing to watch your pets and attend the house.” As Hannibal’s suggestion became more and more enticing, Will couldn’t help but feel like a scared ten year-old calling friends over when the house was empty under the guise of a hang out, when really the boy just didn’t want to be alone.

“Will Hobbs and Hammond reach me there too?”

“We will tackle your hallucinations with time and proper medication.”

“Okay.” Will exhaled. “Okay, yes. Let’s do this. As long as you’re okay with me imposing.”

“You could never impose, Will.” Hannibal helped the dozy man up. “Are you feeling well?”

“Still…getting out of my slump, but yeah.”

He nodded. “We will drive to Wolf Trap and pack. Alana is meeting us there.”

“Wait, what?” Will watched slack-jawed as the doctor walked over to pull Graham’s jacket form the floor. “Moving a little fast, don’t you think?”

Hannibal patted the article of clothing before handing it back to Will with a grim face. “I admit our session earlier disturbed me. I don’t want you alone tonight.”

Or ever again.

\- - -


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow chapter, but it's getting things set up for the next!  
> Also, this does contain some extremely dubious consent through drug use.

When Will saw Alana sitting along the front steps of his porch, he felt a painful twinge in his chest. His dogs, all seven, surrounded her before they jumped at the sight of Hannibal’s black Bentley. Will didn’t wait for Hannibal to fully stop the car as he hopped out to nuzzle and greet his companions. Some slobbered while others, the small ones, barked at their master’s return. Will knew both Hannibal and Alana were waiting, but they were aware enough to keep quiet about it. Will needed this. However short it was, he wanted to just pretend he wasn’t leaving Buster and Winston and all the others behind just because his mind finally cracked from his active imagination.

When the trio did make it inside, there was a tension Will felt but didn’t comment on. Alana only had a vague understanding of the sudden move, but knew enough to recognize she was there for support. He left his friends in the living room, telling them he could pack on his own, and walked up the stairs hearing concerned whispers behind his back. The hallway to his bedroom was made from old wood, but the creaks didn’t deter his trip to the bedroom. The sparsely decorated room made it easy for him to pack. A man of simplicity, Will gathered basic t-shirts, denim jeans, light jackets, personals, and just one extra pair of shoes. Although he was just spending some time, a vacation as Hannibal put it, at a colleague’s house, the word prison kept reappearing in his head. What exactly would Hannibal’s supervising include? Would he replace the demons lurking in the shadows, substitute as Hammond perched at the foot of his bed while he tried to sleep?

Will shook the thought and placed a small bag of toiletries into his duffle bag. The room and the closet were almost barren. This wasn’t a life sentence though: he would see this room, this house, his dogs as soon as he wanted. He knew Hannibal would keep that promise. At least, he should if his goal was to keep Will’s mentality intact.

The man rubbed the slight stubble along his jaw, eyeing the contents of his bag. He wouldn’t know how living with Hannibal would turn out. But he’d take a few gourmet meals and good company than having monsters watch him sleep. Will gathered his bag and walked back down the hallway. His fishing supplies were in the kitchen.

\- - -

“It’s just Jack and I who know you’ll be staying here.”

Will stood just steps away from Hannibal’s front porch, and Alana joined in looking up at the brick building, eyeing the red-trimmed windows and elegant curtains within. “Nothing is on record.”

A soft breeze had her hand at her face, blocking stray strands threatening to get in her eyes. It was cloudy by now, night settling over the city and making it even quieter. Alana looked at Will as he kept examining the house he would live in for the next month. His eyes revealed nothing. Maybe some sadness, she thought. Some fear. “Will?”

“Yeah?”

She cleared her throat. “Over the phone, Hannibal didn’t exactly say…why. And Jack hasn’t questioned the arrangement. I know I don’t have the full picture of what’s going on here.”

Will maintained his silence.

“Just tell me you’re okay, Will. That Jack hasn’t been overwhelming you or you haven’t been receiving threats. What Lounds did was horrible.”

“I’m okay.” He pinched out a smile. “Or, I guess, I’m _going_ to be. This is just temporary. Jack gave me a choice. I‘m staying here instead of protection officers.”

“So this _is_ about the Ripper. I’m not going to make an argument out of this. Just be safe. And in the meantime, I’ll look after your dogs.”

“I'll still see them.” Will slinged a bag over his shoulder. “So, you know, don’t get too comfortable.”

Alana turned around after nudging him on the shoulder. Her car keys jingled. “Say bye to Hannibal for me.”

“You’re not coming inside?” Will had rode with Alana to Hannibal’s house, though conversation was sparse. Suddenly Will wanted to talk to her for hours.

“Can’t,” she made her way down the sidewalk. “I have a late seminar with Foster.”

_Molly_. Will fumbled, “How is she, by the way?”

“Good. I’ll let her know you asked.”

Will watched Alana until her car rounded an intersection down the quiet street. The sun was engulfed from the night by now, and Lecter’s house was just far enough from the city that even the faintest of stars could gently peek. Buildings and neighboring houses surrounded him, but the house still possessed some sense of solitude from the bustle. Who knows, maybe the sound of cars passing by will lull him to a deep sleep. He certainly didn’t get any noises in Wolf Trap.

Entering the psychiatrist’s house made any last remaining comfort in Will’s body flee, however. There was something vastly changing in ones perspective when one enters a house to visit, verses entering a house to _live there_. Will seemed to notice things he hadn’t before. It was an enclave, reflecting the Hannibal’s highly visceral tastes and his desire for order. Either the doctor cleaned often and thoroughly, or he had a top-quality cleaning service come every week. No dust settled on abstract ornaments and unspoiled décor. Hannibal liked to collect the fine things, and Will didn’t know how he would handle feeling so out of place for three weeks.

He took a few awkward steps forward, until Hannibal exited from his kitchen, drying off hands with a cloth. “I almost didn’t hear you come in. Alana left us already?”

“Yeah. She sends her goodbyes.”

“There will be leftovers then, given the tenderloin I just prepared. Though I wouldn’t doubt with your diet, a few extra spoonfuls would good for you.”

Will let out a laugh that eased his tension, “Is this your goal? You get me here to fatten me up?”

Hannibal smiled. “Allow me to show you around.”

The house only had two bedrooms, both of which were upstairs. One at the end of the hall was Hannibal’s, Will guessed, while his was directly across the hall from a large media room. Inside, it didn’t seem like any guest bedroom Will had ever experienced. Walls a deep blue, while the accent colors of the large bed and chairs were burnt reds. With an attached bathroom and a contemporary dresser, Will had everything he needed to unpack and try to make the area his own. Two windows on the far side overlooked a yard and a quiet residential road.

Hearing noise, Will turned around to watch Hannibal pat his bed, as though to make sure every sheet was accounted for. “I’m going to ruin your sheets.”

“Pardon me?”

“Your sheets.” Will repeated. Knowing what happened in the mornings, especially within his briefs, was not something he wanted Hannibal dealing with. “I sweat a lot. And I might pick at my scabs while sleeping.”

“I have plenty of extra sheets, Will. And a washing machine. I don’t want you to worry while you’re here. Some may like tidiness, but that doesn’t mean they do not appreciate the muddy pleasure of fishing.”

“Right. Well, I’m still going to try to not touch anything.”

There was amusement in Hannibal's eyes. “The bathroom is yours, and when hungry I suggest coming to me. Most cannot find their way around my kitchen, unless it’s for a drink.”

“Noted. I also noticed how you and Alana conveniently made sure I got here without my own car. What if I want to go somewhere?”

Will hoisted his luggage atop the bed, shuffling through it and gathering clothes. But when Hannibal explained he would drive him, he paused. “This isn’t sounding much like a vacation, Hannibal.”

“Most would when they are told they have a chauffeur,” the other man turned to face him. “But I did mean it when I said I’d be supervising you, Will. Until you stop having hallucinations, night terrors, and injuring yourself without recollection of it, I won’t feel comfortable leaving you alone. I will put you on medication, yes, but I also want to solve these issues with our usual sessions. You are not a prisoner.” He reinforced, “You are a friend who is going through a less than ideal time. I am moral support.”

“Constant support,” Will dropped jeans into a random dresser drawer. He paused. “Do you have a basement?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I like to make fish lures. If your basement isn’t as…nice as the rest of the place, I figured maybe I could work down there.”

“No, I don't. But the room I normally reserve for my dinner parties would suit your hobbies well. There will be plenty for you to do to ease your boredom.” Hannibal watched as Will placed the last of his shirts just inside the closet’s floor: deciding to hang them later on. The man looked desperately out of place with his nice collections of things. Will just couldn’t see how he was the only thing worth any actual value. “I can show you the room, before we eat. Then I can give you the pills you’ll be taking to forget the dreams each night.”

\- - -

There was a scratching within the walls Will knew wasn’t really there. He sat at the foot of his large bed, wearing boxers after a long shower. The steam from the cleansing seeped into the bedroom, laying along the small mirror on top of the dresser. His hair was damp, but the drips falling on his shoulders went unnoticed as Will stared at the two pills in his hand. These were the same pills Hannibal had given Will in his office hours ago, inducing a sleep that was deep, but altering enough for him to not dream. He hadn’t seen any walking corpses yet either, so maybe the pills could solve more than just one problem.

The scratching grew louder.

Will dipped his head back and popped the two white capsules into his mouth. Once they went down, he continued to sit there and stare at the painting of an Italian village in front of him. The people sitting at a café were nothing more than black outlines, impressionistic visions of people. Will studied the figures, trying to find a difference between himself and them. For a few minutes, he didn’t feel any less awake. The scratching was still surrounding him, like a ritual preparing to summon another monster. A wood-framed clock ticked by the door, almost competing with the noise inside the walls. There was also an annoying itch just below his bellybutton, but Will just tugged his briefs higher to cover the crude marking. It always burned after a shower like a vampire in sunlight.

A fire lit in the base of his skull, slowly swirling and evading the entirety of his head. Will felt his head rocking, then his eyes blurring. It was coming. He curled and uncurled his hands, the scratching getting louder and louder-

 

Hannibal stood just outside the closed door, hands clasped patiently in front of him as he placed himself against the wall. At the soft thump sound of sheets rustling, he counted to sixty in his head before opening the door.

He lingered in the hallway first, eyeing the shaded lamp on the nightstand that filtered through the room. It created an almost bluish hue. He could see Will’s outline near the edge of the bed, his legs dangling. His mouth was parted to let more air into resting lungs. Hannibal entered with sock-covered steps until he reached the opposite side of the mattress. With one flick of the wrist, the lamp went out.

\- - -

The sound of plates clamoring, the smell of meat sizzling reminded Will of his home from childhood, those early mornings he would wake to the aroma of bacon all the way from his bedroom that told him his dad was back from work, and yes, he was making a breakfast befitting a king. This wasn’t a Louisiana breakfast in the slightest, Will thought as he sat along the kitchen’s counter, but it still looked to be something his taste buds would remember. The man felt rested, still coming out of his dreamless stupor, but he didn’t feel quite on par to that eight-year old boy running down the hallway for some grillades and grits. He woke up that morning with strange knots in his muscles, some areas that weren’t bruised, but tender. Thankfully, it was just sweat that dampened the sheets. Will only had to change his boxers for the sake of a shower besides the other, more discomforting reason.

Either way, he possessed a face of complacent satisfaction. No bad dreams, no demons hiding in dark corners. Hannibal wordlessly placed a small cup of coffee in front of Will, his lips curling in a small smile. He turned back around to attend the food in a black robe as Will took a few tentative sips. It was just how he liked it; black and just one notch hotter than a normal tongue could take it. Will barely recalled mentioning the trivia to Hannibal months ago, but it seemed like the doctor remembered.

_What else does he recall?_

“This is really good.”

“Thank you. Our breakfast should be done momentarily.”

“Are…we going to do this every morning?”

Hannibal shifted his gaze over to Will, “Conversation over a meal? I should hope so.”

“Heh. No, I mean…I don’t think I can just sit by and watch you cook every morning. Maybe you think I shouldn’t be near flammable things, but I’d feel better if I was contributing.”

Hannibal raised his brows. “You wish to cook for me?”

“Anything,” Will shrugged, “Clean dishes, at least. I’m good with my hands. I could do yard work…”

Hannibal’s eyes warmed. “Appreciative, but I think it would be better if you grew used to the new surroundings by ingesting them first. Speaking of ingestion...” With the precision of a professional chef, he crafted edible artwork on plates and dribbled something Will didn’t recognize on the spiced potatoes. When the food was laid out before them on the counter, Will felt guilty ruining the design with his fork. But it disappeared the moment the food fell on his tongue.

Not able to stop the overused hum of pleasure, Will said, “This is one of the best meals I’ve ever had.” It went without saying the other meals were also from Hannibal‘s kitchen.

“Good, though I’m going to take the compliment lightly. Anything would taste sublime for an empty stomach.”

“I’d say I ate pretty well last night.”

Hannibal knew Will meant the tenderloin, but his hand nearly dropped its fork anyway. “Yes, you did.”

_Will’s fingers were clumsy and slow and it took him a few minutes to get the button undone than it reasonably should have, then the zipper flew open and Will groaned. At the sight of Hannibal’s length encased in black, silky briefs, already damp with precome, Will dipped his fingers under the elastic and pulled. Hannibal’s member sprung forward and nearly knocked Will in the nose. Will looked beautiful with dull eyes and crimson cheeks, kneeling between Hannibal’s thighs with hushed, excited breaths. He lapped at the tip and Hannibal exhaled the same time Will moaned. He wrapped a hand around his length to hold it steady and Hannibal’s head fell forward, the flush spreading to his neck. “Jesus-” Will’s voice was strangled before taking Hannibal’s length into his mouth and he closed his eyes as the weight settled heavy on his tongue. It was either the first time, the first time in a long, long time that Will had done something like this, but something eventually clicked and Hannibal watched as Will fell into a steady rhythm. His mouth stretched wider around Hannibal’s length and he shivered._

“So,” Will swallowed the last of his egg, “what does supervising me entail, exactly? I understand you’re my shadow, but I can’t imagine you would actually take off work for this.”

Hannibal sipped some of his coffee. “Actually, I did take off for one week, emergencies from clients being the only exception. For seven days, it will be you and I, Will. Trying to figure out what the root of your disturbance is and spending time with relaxing activities as we do so.”

“Activities.” Will chuckled, “You are aware fishing, dog walking, and repair work falls under that?”

_“You want this, Will?” Hannibal’s voice was rough. Will could only whine and suck harder, relaxing his throat to take Hannibal in all the way. Will grinded against the air like a dog and Hannibal pulled back to fuck his mouth. He grunted and Will swallowed all of Hannibal to the very base, soft and light hairs tickling his nose. Hannibal held Will’s head in place with his hands and began to use his mouth. Will kept up, sucking urgently, wanting and needing Hannibal to come and taste it. He moaned, shivering wild and breathing through his nose. Then Hannibal made a sound deep in his chest and his hand clenched down on the back of Will’s neck. Will’s entire body quaked as he came, with the taste of Hannibal in his mouth._

The other man looked at Will with a meaningful gaze. “You’d be surprised at how similar our hobbies are. What would you like to do today?”

\- - -

It was surreal.

If Will wasn’t taking those white pills, he would have been convinced the scene before him was a dream. Hannibal had driven them both to Will’s favorite fishing stream. Standing in the knee-high water, they both wielded fishing staff’s and stood side by side, listening to the wilderness surrounding them. Will caught himself staring more at Hannibal than at his lure. Perhaps this was how Hannibal viewed Will in his house; so obviously misplaced it was difficult to look away.

“Do you see any of your monsters, Will?”

Even wading in dark water with small pests flying around, Hannibal carried a sense of elegance. He flung the fish line into the river like he had been crafting the art of slinging for years. His posture poised, eyes unwavering in the high sun. It wasn’t jealousy that stirred in Will’s center, but a warmth that Will was afraid to define.

Everything was easy at first. Will found himself teaching at the academy every week and picking up strays every so often; content to fix things around the house and have lunch dates with Alana. But then Jack appeared in his lecture hall and his life scheme broke out of its pleasant pattern, and dragged Will into something else. Dragged him to Hannibal Lecter.

The man welcomed everything from him; his delicate psyche, quirks, his “ghastly aftershave”. Hannibal welcomed the worse he had to offer, no matter how much it would cost him, even a roommate. He seemed to know everything about him, every last little thing, even the most trifling. He could predict his every move, guess each of his urges. Then Will realized he was asked a question.

“Hm? Oh, no. I don’t.”

"Good. I hope you’ll tell me if they reappear.”

“Yeah. I hope they don’t.” Will let his eyes scan the neighboring strips of land, looking through trees and the dark shadows of bushes. Demons, reporters, the Ripper. He wasn’t quite sure which he’d rather find staring back at him. There were still marks covering his body, but they didn’t itch or throb anymore. He felt calm. Maybe he snapped, or found his own, personal drug through the pills, and he didn’t know if it was for the worse or better. He did feel good, though, after just one night at Hannibal’s place. Maybe feeling better was all he should have been concerned with at the moment.

“If I snag a fish before you, I make dinner.”

Hannibal turned his head just in time to catch Will throwing his fishing line behind them, before it landed yards down the torrent. He watched the lure bob before disappearing into the water. “Alright. And if I catch a trout, you tell me how you killed Andrew Hammond.”

Will’s face dropped, not liking the concept of tainting this haven with foul memories. He had killed Hammond out of vengeance and violence. This, here, was the opposite of that particular mind set. “And what if neither of us catch anything?”

“Then I’ll make dinner, and you can tell me the story another time.”

Will’s eyes followed his line out to where the water hid his hook. Hannibal’s just was a few yards away. The memory was clear in his head still, courtesy of his overactive imagination he could still smell Hammond’s sweat and the urine streaming down his thighs. It was traumatic killing Jacob Hobbs, having shot him over three times, but with Andrew Hammond, the only thing he could describe it as, was therapeutic.

He meant to kill him. He liked it. And perhaps that was why his mind was slowly killing itself. He was finally becoming what he studied for so long.

A killer.

And there Hannibal Lecter stood, his friend and colleague who kept his secret no matter the consequences. It made Will consider what other secrets he could be keeping for other patients. In chorus with each other, both Hannibal’s and Will’s lines grew taunt and their lines pulled. Thinking a school of fish suddenly swam by, both men riled their rods. But when they examined their catch, Will’s hook was disappointingly empty. Even the bait was gone. Will smiled and rubbed a thumb against the creases of his forehead. “Can’t convince you a best two out of three?”

The oily fish trashed wildly as it hung by Hannibal’s hook. He slipped the metal from the trout’s lip, and Will aired out a net so the other man would have somewhere to store it. It was a large trout, so much so Will had to drop his rod between his legs so he could hold onto the net with both hands. He nearly laughed when Hannibal chucked it in with a scowl, as though he was punishing a rude child. “I’m afraid not, Will. Always after one, I’m satisfied.”

Will held onto the net as he secured his fishing rod. It was a somewhat risky maneuver, and apparently too risky when the man realized one stupid step made him slip on a large rock under the dark water. In one painfully slow plummet, Will’s held out the net with extended arms so the fish wouldn’t fly free and he braced himself as his back hit the cool river.

“Will?” Hannibal crouched down and grabbed his arm to pull him back up. He coughed, getting the taste of murky water from his mouth and shook out the damp ends of his hair.

“Fine,” he laughed, “That was stupid. Guess I’m walking home. Trout can have the front seat.”

Hannibal eyed the dying fish before he looked at Will’s soaked clothes. “I have another idea.”

 

Will rode in the passenger seat of Hannibal’s expensive car, but it wasn’t how he imagined it twenty minutes ago. He was half-naked, wearing only his pants and fresh socks Hannibal had spares of. He was wrapped in a blanket large enough to house a family of four. The blanket came from the trunk, Hannibal explained, having helped his share of people while at crime scenes. “We will visit your dogs another time, given our meal in the backseat and your need of a new wardrobe.” Hannibal started the engine.

“Yeah,” Will said quietly. He rested his head against the seat, feeling suddenly tired to oppose his body’s struggle for some comfort. Hannibal rolled down both windows, letting fresh air mingle with the increasing smell inside his Bentley which consisted of fish and river water. Will welcomed the gust of wind, even if his body was still damp.

For a few minutes they drove like this, in silence after the fishing endeavor. Will tilted his head to lie more comfortably against the seat and closed his eyes to enjoy the moment while it lasted. He grew sleepy, relaxed, but the sound of the engine and the occasional bump on the road kept him somewhat alert.

“Will, I would like to talk about Andrew Hammond.”

That brought him out of his daze. Will blinked, favoring to keep his head facing the window so he could look at the passing forest. Tall trees lined the long road, creating shadows above and nearly blocking out the sun. “What about?”

“Specifically, his last hours alive.”

He scoffed. “Don’t know about his last few hours. I was just there for his last hour. At best. Maybe an hour and a half.”

“You were aware of time passing?”

Will’s expression hardened. “I was alert. I was…thinking clearly. He mentioned something that confused me. I don‘t know. I didn‘t dwell on it at the time.”

When it seemed like Will wouldn’t continue, Hannibal glanced over at him. “What did he say?”

An exhale. “Something about a video. It was like he expected someone else.

“Hm. A friend?”

“The killer didn’t work with anyone else. When I play over the memory, I can’t help but think he anticipated the Chesapeake Ripper at his doorstep. That maybe they’ve been talking. Didn’t care at the time. I sedated him to tie him down. Then I killed him.”

“The sedative you took from my carrier was to dose Hammond. Not yourself.”

“I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Jack ruled him as a missing persons case without a body. There was mention of an past spouse claiming it was like him to suddenly vanish. Seems like everything worked out, so to speak.”

“Beverly thinks it was the Ripper.” Will added, “She thinks it’s too coincidental to have a son and father die only a month or two apart.”

“Is she still looking into the case?”

“Don’t know. Last time I checked, she was on jury duty.”

A long moment of silence evaded the car. Breezes from both windows gently waved through their hair. “Do you regret killing Hammond?”

“…No.”

“Why do you think you still see him, Will?”

“I don’t know.” He whispered. “Maybe because he’s reminding me of what I am now. What the Ripper always thought I could become.”

“And what have you become?”

Will grimaced. The answer was obvious, but Hannibal wanted him to say it out loud. “A murderer.”

\- - -

There were many interesting things about Will Graham. He had a “keen intuitive, analytical, and compulsive intellect,” as Jack put it before Hannibal was introduced to him. He was talented as a profiler, and didn’t Jack enjoy toting Will around like his newest puppy performing cute tricks. Special Agent Crawford and his never ending army of new recruits. Maybe when Will disappeared, Jack would search for another.

Another thing was the fact Will Graham was the most uncomfortable person Hannibal had never met. It wasn’t to say he was unfit for social settings, the young man could certainly cast off an air of welcoming charm. But he had no clue how to manage a room or mingle. He mumbled more than he was probably aware of, picking at his nails and displaying painfully obvious false smiles. He used to fiddle with his hair while looking down sheepishly, but stopped that habit when a woman thought he was being flirtatious. Now he took to pinching fingertips. Hannibal suspected he possessed many ticks as to tolerate unfamiliar situations, a simple defense mechanism to control the anxiety that made him restless.

There was something enormously interesting with the fact Hannibal found himself obsessed with Will Graham. Upon first glance, one could assume he would have been another Miriam Lass. His odd demeanor and doe-eyes made many underestimate him. Will was conventionally handsome, which made strangers think he was sociable and self-confident. It only took seconds for his face to fall and to try to hide behind his glasses as he gracelessly stumbled away.

But he wasn’t naïve like Lass, unrelenting like Bloom, oblivious like Katz. He was aloof, really. Living by himself, not able to sustain a relationship for longer than a few weeks. There was that Molly girl, but Hannibal had scared her away.

The sound of water running was faint in the bustling kitchen, but Hannibal heard the pipes within the wall enough to visualize a naked Will hesitantly stepping into the shower. He turned the heat up on the stove and grabbed a bottle of imported vinegar close by.

-

Will looked at the spacious bathroom he only used once before. It still appeared unpolluted by his touch, but he knew it wouldn’t last now. He didn’t consider himself a sloppy, or even a careless guest. There was just something nerve-wracking about Hannibal’s possessions that made the man self-conscious of where he stepped, what he did in his friend’s home. Just one thing out of place, one spot of dirt on the counter, and Hannibal would know it came from Will.

He tried to be courteous, even going as far as to cleaning the pristine sink after each tooth-brushing sitting. Staining the bed sheets with sweat was embarrassing enough. He spit some remains of mud into a trashcan, knowing the door was shut behind him. He peeled off the damp briefs, and cursed softly when he realized river water was dripping over the marble floor.

Will opened a closet, grabbed a few large towels, then placed them as a trail to the shower. He tugged off the socks, but hesitated when it came to actually disrobing the large blanket draped around his shoulders. The door was locked, so he knew Hannibal wouldn’t just barge inside, but it was still strange for a reason he couldn’t pinpoint. Will used the sink plenty of times. And the shower once before. The same appliances Hannibal may have used. The same mirror and sink. Possibly the shower as well, stepping out to grab a towel Will had used, drying off his chest. The sights the mirror reflected over the years.

Will pulled himself together, shrugging off the blanket, and thought instead of how great hot water would feel after the freezing river.

Naked except for the sludge in his hair, Will slid the glass door open with a towel wrapped around his waist, paranoid, and only discarded it once the water hit the ideal temperature. Ever since the incident, Will developed a strong love for steaming-hot showers, and within minutes the entire room filled with a heavy mist. He caressed damp curls under the water and blew out his nose to get rid of that fish smell. He used the smallest amounts of soaps and shampoos. Hannibal had told him to use whatever he needed and as much as he wanted, but Will was uncomfortable with the idea, like everything else.

He washed fragile skin, some of the worse bruises still tender while smaller ones looked fainter than yesterday. The carving between his hip bones had healed substantially thanks to near-constant application of ointments, but the lack of pain couldn’t make up for the fact the letters were still there. Still taunting, still cruelly reminding him that his body wasn’t even his one night.

More minutes passed. Hannibal would be finished prepping dinner soon. Satisfied, Will tapped the facet off and grabbed the thick towel hanging just outside the glass panel. But when he stepped out, something was different. Changed. It took him a moment to realize what it was.

His river soaked clothes were gone. Hannibal mentioned putting clothes in the laundry, but he assumed the man would wait until he came out of the bedroom. There was a neatly folded bundle of clothes along the large counter, but that only made Will clutch the towel tighter around his waist. Feeling stupid, he glanced over at the other end of the bathroom, forgetting about the second door that connected to the hallway. He never locked that door. Really, he forgot it was there. The bathroom was so large already, and that door was tucked in a corner. It wasn’t even observable.

Realization dawning like a bullet, he turned himself back around and looked at the shower’s doors. They were glass panels, slightly obscured with a frosted design. But they were still see-through. When Hannibal came in to take the blanket and undergarments, why didn’t he let Will know he was coming in? Maybe he couldn’t have heard him over the roar of the water, but why didn’t Will notice a moving shadow through the glass? His showers did create an awful lot of steam. The room was still slightly foggy, the entire mirror completely glossed over. Maybe the glass was covered with a thick enough haze. Maybe Hannibal didn’t tell him he was coming in because he knew how jumpy Will had become. But wouldn’t Hannibal think finding out he had been inside was just as startling?

Will walked over and peeked through the ajar door, finding the hallway empty. He closed and locked the door before walking back to the counter. The clothes left were not his own. Of course, he blinked, his bedroom door was also locked. Before Will realized what he did, he pressed the shirt to his nose and inhaled. Fresh laundry and a faint cologne. It was intoxicating. He placed it back down, only slightly alarmed.

There were two small bottles of Will’s favorite medical cream, roll of gauze, a simple black t-shirt, lounge sweats, matching grey socks, -even respecting Will’s tastes, Hannibal still managed to coordinate- and, he nearly dropped the last article- boxers? _Oh, oh Christ._ Will sputtered. Hannibal had gone through that drawer for him too? Will slung the towel over the shower panel and snatched the tubes first. He applied generous amounts on the branding, hoping the layer would absorb the word, and gently rewrapped his wrists and ankles with gauze. He slipped the shirt on soon after, thankful it felt warm and soft, pulled on the boxers around his wounds (with a closer inspection, he noticed they were the right size and pleasantly airy - _oh my god, Hannibal thought about this_ -), and tugged on the sweats and socks.

All the clothes were warm, and Will felt his cheeks burn. He was wearing Hannibal’s clothes. Clothes that draped around his form and smelled of something woodsy. Everything was just one or two sizes too big for his frame, but he folded the ends of the pants and tightened the pants along the waist so they wouldn’t pool around his ankles later. He combed out his wet hair, tussling it, and finally cleaned up the mess of towels of the floor before leaving. The pants swished against his legs and he had never felt so emaciated and small as he wore Lecter’s clothes.

A faint smell drifted up from the kitchen and it put a jump in his step. The socks threatened a quick and clumsy trip, so he gripped the railing walking down the steps, but momentarily froze when he realized Hannibal had taken all of his clothes. The socks weren’t dirty, having been worn after the plunge. But Will realized he had taken his boxers too. He tried to shake the thought. Why was he obsessing over this?

Will found Hannibal downstairs, finishing whatever it was that was their dinner for the evening. It was unexpectedly dark outside and Will glanced at a clock to know it was nearing eight. His appetite was wrecked, completely demolished, for the last few weeks, but Will’s stomach growled when he looked at the food cooking on the stove.

“That smells great,” Will commented.

Hannibal nodded, probably used to the compliment, but took it with a smile anyway. “Please sit, we’ll be dining shortly.”

Not surprisingly, the table in the next room was already set. Will took advantage of the solitude to ease onto his chair, his ass slightly sore. It was odd, the pain down there always ranging from utterly fine to I cannot sit for hours. He brushed the issue off, though, not wanting to dwell with the mechanics of that kind of sodomy. Instead he sat there staring at the eccentric table décor before Hannibal brought plates on experienced hands. The table already held a few accent plates with various fruits, complimenting the lavender lining underneath, and the plants growing along the wall behind him probably grew some of them.

“A beef and lotus root dish.”

“And tastefully executed.” Will’s eyes focused at the small bird skull next to the maroon broth. He picked up a polished fork and took a careful bite. “Wow.”

“Good?”

“Yeah. Really good.” Will cut another piece of meat, though it looked unusually dark for trout, and rushed to swallow so he wouldn’t have to speak with a full mouth. “You can’t possibly cook like this every night?”

Hannibal moved the fork to his mouth, slowly chewing. There was a smile in his eyes.

“Really? There is ever a time you hang up the apron and order out? Or maybe just make a sandwich?”

“I am a chef with a penchant for unusual, but tasteful ingredients.”

Will laughed. “What you eat defines you.”

“Yes. I like to think so.” The animal skull in the middle of the table surely spoke for that, as well as the one on each of their plates.

“Thank you. For the clothes.” He hummed with the fork in his mouth. “You didn’t have to. But they're nice.”

“I wasn’t sure how you were healing, but I can smell the antibiotics. I trust your fall earlier hasn’t thwarted your progress?” Hannibal watched the other man taste the sauce lingering on his lips, his Adam’s apple bob with each swallow. He consumed the entire sight of Will, especially as a small bit of the broth dribbled past his lip and a tongue, came to lick it away.

“Hm? Oh. No. Just made a few places sore.” Will lied, but Hannibal certainly wasn’t going to explain why or how he knew the profiler’s body better than he did. He had a plan for everything, including the right moment when he could pinpoint when Will would be ready for that revelation. Following another course of thought, the man swallowed his own piece of Mr. Foyer before stating, “Will, I was hoping we could talk more about Andrew Hammond. About what happened.”

The other man frowned. It was enchanting, almost, how naturally afraid Will was at offending him. “Is…is that dinner conversation?”

“I want to help you, Will. And to do that, I need to know what happened to you. What’s going on inside your head. I don’t want to enlighten the others you are here for more ominous reasons than just the Ripper.”

Will shifted in his seat, wondering if the next few weeks were going to be like this. Always on his guard of Hannibal’s questions out of the office. In the end, he pushed the remains of his food on his plate, looking elsewhere. “It’s…complicated.”

Hannibal placed a napkin on his empty plate, sitting back. “A proper boeuf bourguignon dish is complicated, Will. I don‘t think there is a word yet for what you are going through.”

“I’m…scared. I think. I’m scared of what I did, of what I knew I had to do. I’m scared of what that makes me now. I don’t think I can help Jack anymore.”

Hannibal watched Will make small designs with the sauce, openly staring at the ashen fingers grasping the fork. “Having unturned one rock, you’re afraid of overturning even more if you continue to explore minds of those who have killed many.”

Will scoffed. “I don’t think I feel comfortable admitting I could kill again. Wouldn’t you be obligated to put me on some kind of list?”

“What you did, you did out of passion for this man’s death. He did something unspeakable and you made him answer for it. Those are not the thoughts of a serial killer. That is a mind of a tortured, but sane, man.”

A hunger grew deep within Hannibal. It spiraled tightly at the core of his center before spreading, slowly, outward and flowing into blood vessels, reaching every fingertip and the edges of his ears. It was a darkness, something Hannibal was born out of, feeding off of Will and his trembling condition. The profiler was living in a lion’s den, unaware of the fact, but willing nonetheless. Alone and smiling weakly at him. Hannibal would own that smile soon, see it under moonlight reaching through drawn curtains. The image alone sent an unexpected, but welcomed, shiver down his back.

“Knowing what he had done to you, I possessed the same desire. Does that make me a serial killer? To see him dead?”

Will pursed his lips, the beginnings of a dead anger rising. “No. But few actually carry out their daydreams.”

“Will, if you hadn’t killed Andrew Hammond, I would have.” The statement was chillingly absolute. Will didn’t like the silence, but he didn’t know what to say to that. Hannibal continued. “I am confident you would not take a life deliberately. Without reason. Your limits may be tested, outside these walls, but I wouldn’t put you in a situation I didn’t think you couldn’t handle.”

“I haven’t watched the news.” Will sighed. “And Alana, Jim, Beverly never say anything. Am I still page one on the _Baltimoresun_?”

Hannibal didn‘t miss a beat. “The _Gazette_ , actually. _Baltimoresun_ pushed you to the fifth page.”

“Christ-”

“Jack has been clever, planting seeds in Lounds’s head to have her think you traveled out of state.”

The last thing Will wanted was the redhead and other nosy reporters snooping about his property in Wolf Trap. The thought of residents in the city vandalizing his house, or harming his dogs, was something he didn’t want to consider. Remembering those commentors online, or even folks interviewed out on the streets, did not give Will much hope that the whole Ripper’s Partner situation would blow over soon. Will didn’t want to accept that his reputation may be tarnished outside the FBI, that he would be labeled an accomplice to the Chesapeake Ripper. And that’s the polite way of saying fuck buddy.

“I would like to have the Chesapeake Ripper file. I think it’ll help.” Hannibal was surprised by this, but didn‘t let it show.

“I don’t want to obsessing over this killer, Will.”

“He’s obsessing over _me_ , Hannibal.” Will’s voice was firm. “I want to pick up where I left off. You have me here, trying to help me get better. Well, that will help. I know if I just study the facts, look at the photos long enough, I’ll figure it out. I‘ll figure it out, I’ll catch him, and it'll be over.”

“Your line of reasoning isn’t sound, Will. It would just impair your recovery.”

_You’re feeding me bullshit._ Will held his tongue and, instead, set his fork on the plate. Hannibal ignored Will‘s frustration, even if he understood it.

With an even voice, he said, “Allow yourself to recover first, Will. I want you to relax while you’re my guest.”

“What’s in those pills?”

Hannibal raised a brow at the sudden change of topic.

“The ones I take at night.”

“Mainly temazepam, as well as other psychoactive drugs from the benzodiazepine class. They are regulated, common medications. Are you experiencing side effects?”

“No.” Will shook his head. “They’re just…really good. I won’t grow dependent on them, will I?”

“No. Continue to take two before sleep. We will eventually go down to one, then, hopefully, nothing at all.”

“Hm.” Will wasn’t sure what would happen if he went off the pills. Would the night terrors come back full force, making up for lost time, or would they be replaced by the usual dreams of fly fishing with Abigail, walking in the woods with the stag, having coffee with Alana?

“Are you having dreams, Will?”

“No. And I can’t even begin to thank you for that.”

“You don’t need to. For that or anything else.” Hannibal stood, taking his and Will’s plate. “Dessert?”

“Sounds great. Uh, do you need any help?” Will already knew the answer, but damn if he wouldn’t try. Hannibal may dive deep in his head, but he only wanted to help. Will could only try to carry his weight return.

“No, please sit. You may not realize it, Will, but you help me quite often enough."


End file.
